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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25259422">A Creeping of Wisteria</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wmblake/pseuds/wmblake'>wmblake</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>A Matter of Translation [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Archivist Sasha James, Canon-Typical Horror, Canon-Typical Worms, Fluff, Jane Prentiss and her worms, Mild Dissociation, Multi, Pining, Poetry, Polyamory, gerry's alive bc i say so, martin's poetry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:34:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>47,719</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25259422</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wmblake/pseuds/wmblake</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“My name is Sasha James. I have recently been moved to work as the Head Archivist for the Magnus Institute, London. If you’re listening to this, then I’m sure you’re aware that we are an organization dedicated to paranormal research and understanding. The current head of the Institute, Mr. Elias Bouchard, saw fit to move me from my role as a researcher to lead the Archives, after the recent death of the previous Head Archivist, Gertrude Robinson."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sasha James/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>A Matter of Translation [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1830022</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A few words: this is part one of a six-part series. The main ship at the end of the entire fic will be Sasha/Jon/Tim/Martin/Gerry—and it will take a very long time to get there. I'm publishing part one in its entirety all at once; I hope to publish all subsequent parts similarly, so I have no idea how long it'll take between one fic and the next. Just a heads up.</p><p>Another heads up: the series as a whole is a tragedy; it isn't a fix-it fic, even with the changes to canon I've made (and plan to make). If that's going to upset you ... treat part five as the ending, then. I can promise that one won't end sad.</p><p>Because of how long this is, I have no idea how to tag it right now. Sorry. The rest isn't written and I don't know how to warn for things I haven't written yet.</p><p>That's ... probably enough in terms of excuses. Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoy &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Click.</em> Gerry held a lighter to his cigarette, shielding the small fire from the chilling wind coiling its way through the streets of London. He snapped the lighter closed, took a deep breath, and sighed. Watched the Institute as it, in turn, watched the city, watched the people walking down the sidewalks, stepping into shops or homes or their cars—Gerry frowned. He stuck his collar up against the seeking, searching ribbons of cold, tracing over his hands and down his cheeks like hungry fingers, wanting nothing more than to burr and burrow into his flesh, to root itself in the fibers of his muscle, his sinew, his very core—</p>
<p>Gerry waved the thoughts away with his hand, like smoke obscuring his eyes. He flicked ash from the cigarette—reconsidered—and stubbed it out against a garbage bin, tossing it inside.</p>
<p>He turned on his heel sharply, sparing the Institute one more frown, and walked away.</p>
<p>Eyes clung to him like stray threads, like cobwebs caught on his clothes, in his hair, from a trek through the attic. Gerry kept his head down. The back of his neck prickled, like salt drying—like escaping shark-infested waters, only to still feel tainted, to still smell bloody.</p>
<p>He shook his head.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div><p>Coming back from the dead about a year after he died left Gerry with little to his name. A few of the stashes he’d hidden remained intact—including one built and then bricked up into the wall behind what used to be Pinhole Books. Before leaving, he gave the place a cursory look, just to see if the books—if his mother—had left any mark on the place, if years of fear within the walls had eroded into the foundations of the building, holding the metallic sense-memory of salt and blood in the air, like something dead too-long preserved.</p>
<p>The walls stood, solid as ever, repainted and reflecting the mundane laughter and grief of the present tenants. A flash of envy, so cold it burned, licked through Gerry like a flame; the horrors he witnessed, hunted, destroyed—helped—so easily forgotten by the building itself less than three years later. He frowned. Collected the money and papers he had and left Morden as quickly as possible.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div><p>Gerry, between the odds-and-ends jobs he could get, continued the work he had left behind with his death.</p>
<p>“I don’t want any trouble,” he said, sitting across from a frazzled-looking man in a coffee shop. The man’s eyes hardly glanced at Gerry, preferring to watch the shadows lurking in the corners, even of the brightly-lit, 24-hour cafe. Gerry frowned at the black mist winding itself around the man’s hands, his throat—even through his hair. Like his shadow had manifested solely to caress him, and each touch made the man watch any lack of light as a child watched the corners of their room, their closet, sure that a monster would slip from them if they didn’t remain vigilant. Gerry continued, “I just want to help.”</p>
<p>“How—how can you help?” The man skipped over any denial, any protest, and Gerry watched the darkness curl itself around the man’s ankles. “Can you—can you save me? From—from this?”</p>
<p>“I … can help you save yourself,” Gerry said. Before the man’s hope could deflate, he asked, “What’s the brightest thing in your life?”</p>
<p>“Wha—what?”</p>
<p>Gerry sighed. “… what’s your name?” he asked, voice soft.</p>
<p>“… Daniel.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry this is happening to you, Daniel,” he said. “Now, what can you tell me about your life? What always makes you smile? Who makes you laugh?”</p>
<p>“My—my daughter. She—her mother left, and we’ve always been close, and she—she’s been performing, recently—a band with friends from college, and she gets so—so excited talking about her music. I—I can hardly understand a lick of it sometimes, but she’s—she’s happy.” Even now, with the Dark hunched over his shoulders, Daniel smiled. His lips were thin and pale, but he smiled nonetheless.</p>
<p>“Do you have any plans with her soon?”</p>
<p>“I—not anything specific, no. She comes over for dinner sometimes, once a month or so, but she’s been so busy recently—”</p>
<p>“Call her. Ask her how she’s doing. Get dinner together. I’m sure she misses you, too.”</p>
<p>“How did you—”</p>
<p>“Keep thinking about your daughter, Daniel. You’ll make it through the night.” Gerry stood. “Call her. Soon.”</p>
<p>Daniel nodded as he watched Gerry leave the coffee shop, baffled. Gerry glanced at him through the window, shoulders relaxing as he saw the Dark’s hold around his throat loosen.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div><p>Gerry showered at shelters, when he was in London. He frequently tried <em>not</em> to be in London—the Institute loomed over him like the ever-present confines of a second skin, even when he couldn’t see the building. He felt his connection to the place even outside of London, hanging on him like bindings, like a book’s stitching—</p>
<p>Staying on the move, never <em>living</em> anywhere in London at least gave him the illusion of being free of the city, free to go wherever he pleased, free of ties anchoring him to the pupil of the Watcher’s eye. Every time he ended up standing across the street, staring back at the Institute, the building—what the building stood for—reminded Gerry that, though he could run as far as he pleased, it would always call him back.</p>
<p>Gerry lit a cigarette. He watched people walk from place to place, living out their everyday lives, unaware of the oppressive gaze that could so easily turn on them, peel back their skin, and reveal everything within they wished to hide. The Eye’s presence bore down, heavy due to proximity and not intention, and, even then, though filth made his skin crawl—made him wash his hands over and over, digging beneath his nails to remove any dirt or grime left behind—the Eye’s watching made Gerry feel the cockroach, wanting to scurry into the dark to hide from the light.</p>
<p>Instead, Gerry caught sight of a woman walking, a different weight bearing down on her, like the thickness of mud had seeped into her bones and she struggled to lift each leaden limb. <em>Guilt,</em> Gerry knew. <em>Debt.</em></p>
<p>He shot a glare at the Institute, though its knowledge came useful, and he noted which business front the woman walked into. He put out his cigarette and crossed the street.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Connection</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sasha watched the door close behind Tim, the brass handle closing with a <em>click</em> as the dark wood separated her from the rest of the Archives.</p>
<p>She turned to her work, beginning with the tape recorder. It whirred softly at her elbow as she readied the first statement.</p>
<p>“Test, test. One, two, three …” Sasha eyed the tape recorder. “Right. Well. Fingers crossed, I suppose.” She cleared her throat. “My name is Sasha James. I have recently been moved to work as the Head Archivist for the Magnus Institute, London. If you’re listening to this, then I’m sure you’re aware that we are an organization dedicated to paranormal research and understanding. The current head of the Institute, Mr. Elias Bouchard, saw fit to move me from my role as a researcher to lead the Archives, after the recent death of the previous Head Archivist, Gertrude Robinson.</p>
<p>“I worked as a researcher for two years, and in Artifact Storage as a practical researcher for three months prior to that. I only met my predecessor a couple of times, and, outside of my academic qualifications … I’m not sure why she selected me for this position.” Sasha sighed. “It’s not like I have a degree in Library Science,” she muttered. “But … regardless.</p>
<p>“The Archives are … a mess. Even just sitting in my office, I can see what feels like thousands of files, spread loosely around or in unmarked boxes, or dated with the last three digits of the year, the day, and then the month. A lot are handwritten or typed on a typewriter. I think my laptop might be the first computer this office has ever <em>seen,</em> so there also aren’t any digital or audio versions.</p>
<p>“I think … Gertrude must have had a reason for keeping the Archives in such a state. I don’t know why … but I won’t be following in her footsteps; though I’m sure she had her reasons, I am a researcher first, and not having any sort of database which researchers can browse or use specific terms to search for statements regarding their current projects keeps critical analyses and papers from being more easily compiled and published.</p>
<p>“My assistants Timothy Stoker and Jonathan Sims have transferred to the Archives from research to help my efforts, and Martin Blackwood is another assistant of mine, who has worked for the Institute for a number of years as a filing clerk or in an otherwise secretarial position. I plan on digitizing these files as much as possible, typing up statements and providing audio versions.</p>
<p>“Some record to my laptop with … significant audio distortion, and so, thanks to Tim’s quick thinking, I will be recording some statements on a tape recorder for now.<br/>“Additionally, my assistants will be providing some supplementary information not mentioned in the statements—locations, vital dates, etc., to streamline any necessary follow-up and researching efforts. I will provide these at the end of each statement.</p>
<p>“Unfortunately, with my efforts to digitize the Archives occurring simultaneously with the organization of the files, I can’t say anything for the date or theme of the statements that are recorded. As my assistants and I work, we will develop a filing system which will hopefully work best for investigations—including markers for time, theme, and location, especially on the digital database.</p>
<p>“Organizing the physical tapes themselves will be more challenging, but … that’s likely enough of an explanation for now.” Sasha shook her head and reached for the first statement. “We do have to start somewhere …</p>
<p>“All right. Statement of Erin Patel, regarding the decline in her previous home’s condition. Original statement given April 17th, 2012. Audio recording by Sasha Jame, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.</p>
<p>“It just started as a creeping sense of dread, you know? Nothing too out of the ordinary—nothing I couldn’t brush off as just being … me, settling in. I had never lived alone before this, so—</p>
<p>“Sorry. I should start at the beginning, shouldn’t I? I recently moved into an apartment on Kew Gardens road, in Richmond. About four months ago now, after I took a job at the National Archives—after a … messy break-up with my boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. Benjamin Jones, if you have to contact him. I hope you don’t, though.</p>
<p>“Anyway, before living with him, I always had a roommate, because—well, you know how high rent can be when you’re in uni, or working on your masters, right?</p>
<p>“So I was by myself. No big deal, you know? Everyone’s got to strike out on their own at some point. But … things weren’t right. It started small, but …</p>
<p>"It started with ... visions? I know your guidelines say you don't document experiences involving dreams, so I'll be clear: by the end, I <em>knew</em> I wasn't dreaming. But, at first ... it was like I couldn't tell. Like I was seeing things around me that weren't around <em>me,</em> like I was watching someone else—someone who looked just like me—being surrounded by these ... figments. Or figures. Tall, spindly <em>things</em> that loomed in the corners of my too-big, too-empty apartment.</p>
<p>"And I'd just ... watch them. Or they'd watch me. Still as they were silent—until a dog barked across the street, or my phone pinged, or a car drove by and the light cut through the slats of my blinds, and I'd snap out of it. There wouldn't be figures anymore, like they'd never been there at all. Like they'd just been some trick of the light.</p>
<p>"When they didn't move, when they just ... <em>stood</em> there, it was easy to act like that's all they were. Tricks of the light.</p>
<p>"Then they started moving.</p>
<p>"I ... I want to preface this with a couple of things. I can say that I was afraid of the dark as a child, like I'm sure any child was, but only until I was about twelve. I mean, okay, I'm sure most kids grow out of it around then anyway—I might've even been on the slower end, but I didn't just <em>grow</em> out of it. I left it behind, completely.</p>
<p>"Okay, I had a best friend when I was in secondary school. Her name was Eliza. Elizabeth Lorne, I mean. And her name still <em>is</em> Elizabeth Lorne, I suppose, it's just that we haven't talked much, or at all, really, since we went to different universities.</p>
<p>“Now, Eliza … didn’t really have friends outside of me. To be fair, I didn’t have many outside of her either, but I do mean that she had no friends other than me. At the time, I figured it was because, well, she was quiet, and kids could be cruel, you know? She … unsettled other people. Made them have to sit and think in silences too long or something. And her parents were also like that—well. They were like that, until her father died. Or. Was murdered, actually. He was … the last victim of Montauk, the man who took all those people’s hearts?</p>
<p>“After that, Eliza’s mom—Sarah—just … lost it, I guess. Their house had always been big, and empty with just the three of them, and dark because they only turned on lights that they needed—but then Sarah stopped turning on lights at all. I guess she also stopped replacing the bulbs, because they wouldn’t work when I tried to turn them on. I stayed over a lot, with Eliza, trying to help as much as I could, you know?</p>
<p>“I don’t think her mom liked it. Not that she ever said anything like that, but … I always got the feeling.</p>
<p>“One night, I was over and helping Eliza with some things. Basic stuff, like laundry and putting groceries away, but … she didn’t have the energy to do it alone, and it wasn’t like it was difficult for me, you know? Anyway, she had gone up to her room to grab the last load of laundry, so I was left in the basement alone. Eliza left the door open at the top of the steps, so the light from the kitchen windows could come down, since none of the lights in the basement worked.</p>
<p>“The door closed.</p>
<p>“I can only guess that it was Sarah, you know, since she was the only other person in the house, and Eliza would never leave me in the dark like that—but when I called up the stairs that I was down there, that I couldn’t see, asking if the door could be opened again—no one answered.</p>
<p>“I tried to find the steps. I leaned down to feel for them, walking in their general direction, so I wouldn’t bump my shins into them or anything—and I wish that had been the only worry I needed to have.</p>
<p>“I couldn’t find the stairs. I don’t know how long it took me to realize they weren’t there—and, even after I knew that there was no way I could have missed them, I kept looking anyway, because—well, how long would it take you to think that the stairs had disappeared? That the darkness had <em>eaten</em> them?</p>
<p>“Then the noises started. Like snuffling, at first. Something else breathing. Looking for me. And it was coming closer.</p>
<p>“I didn’t want to find out what would happen if it caught me, so I tried to run away. I kept tripping over things, like there was stuff on the floor, even though the basement had been empty before the door closed, and I remember scraping my hands and knees—but I kept running. Sometimes, the sound would … change, where it was coming from, and it would suddenly be right in front of me, and—I don’t know how. But I just. Kept running.</p>
<p>“I don’t know how long it took me to think of Eliza, but—once I had—I couldn’t think of anything else. She was coming back, she had just gone upstairs for the next load of laundry, and what would happen to her, if she got stuck in that place right alongside me? What if she already <em>was</em> and I just couldn’t see her? What if she was scared, alone, in the darkness in her <em>own basement,</em> after everything she had already had to go through?</p>
<p>“I think I screamed. I think I called her name, or <em>something,</em> but I really can’t remember. I was just so … angry isn’t the right word. Indignant isn’t either, but I was <em>furious</em> at the darkness in her basement, like how <em>dare</em> it try to hurt Eliza, after everything she was already going through.</p>
<p>“The door opened. At the top of the stairs. Light flooded down and the darkness fled away, retreating back into the corners. Eliza ran down the stairs and … as soon as she reached me, as soon as I could see her again, could hold onto her—I wasn’t afraid. I hadn’t really been afraid as soon as I had thought of her.</p>
<p>“So I haven’t been afraid of the dark since then. I guess you could say I just … got overloaded with it, all at once, so it’s like … if it couldn’t get me then, how could it ever get me again?</p>
<p>“Eliza and I parted on good terms, by the way. Just. Moved apart, how people do. Thank G-d for it, really, because I might not be here otherwise.</p>
<p>“The other thing is that I’ve never experienced hallucinations before. I haven’t smoked anything since university, I drink only socially, and even then only in small amounts, and I’ve never had a history of seeing things that weren’t there. This is just … what happened.</p>
<p>“The figures started to move. I—I think it was because they didn’t scare me, not at first, and they <em>wanted</em> me to be afraid. At first, they just … bowed, like trees in the wind, almost. Then they loomed. Then they started reaching out, with hands like mouths that only wanted to take me, wanted to <em>devour</em> me—</p>
<p>“I stopped sleeping, once they started trying to touch me. I actually stopped going home at night at all. I’d ride the metro until I couldn’t keep my eyes open, and then I’d go to some 24-hour cafe—or any place that sold coffee, really, including the cheap fast-food places that are open when nothing else is.</p>
<p>“At first, it worked. Or it felt like it did. But then they started following me, along walls of buildings, reaching out of alleyways, lurking in the flickering lights of public bathrooms and on the edges of streetlights—</p>
<p>“And then they figured out that I had a shadow they could crouch within, could try to worm their not-fingers into me from the one thing I couldn’t get away from—</p>
<p>“It happened at work. My coworkers were worried about me, of course, they could tell things weren’t … right, but … The figures got in the shadows under my desk. They waited for me there, leering at me, waiting for me to sit down so they could use their hands like teeth—</p>
<p>“I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it. I screamed and shouted and tried to get everyone—<em>anyone</em>—to notice the figures that stretched themselves across the floor—</p>
<p>“I’m sure you can guess that no one did see them. I was instructed to take some medical leave, to deal with my <em>stress.</em> I … I don’t know if I’ll be able to go back, honestly. I don’t know if I’ll be let back, or if I’ll … I don’t know if I can sit at that desk and not see the shadows itching to drag me into their depths, where all form and figure is lost, where I’ll just be—trapped, like in that basement, all over again.</p>
<p>“But … thinking of the basement saved me, I guess. I was walking that night—not going home, but it had stormed that evening, and I couldn’t leave for the metro in the pouring rain, the streetlights hadn’t turned on yet, and I couldn’t risk it in the dark. But that meant I was headed for the metro, running from one pool of light to the next …</p>
<p>“They went out. Or it was like they did. I was running as fast as I could from the edge of one to the edge of the next, but, somewhere in the middle, everything went dark. I kept running, hoping to find an end, to find a <em>light,</em> but … the darkness didn’t end. It <em>had</em> no end. I’m sure I could have kept running in there forever and never hit anything, other than the same dips and bumps that had me tripping forward every so often.</p>
<p>“There were things in that darkness, too. Things following me. Hunting me. I couldn’t see them, and I don’t know if they could see me, but it didn’t matter, because they were coming after me.</p>
<p>“And so I thought of Eliza. I thought of how she had come when I called, had brought the light into the depths of that darkness, how she had <em>saved me.</em> And I suddenly missed her with that keen sharpness that comes with missing people you never thought you would have to miss, people you thought would be with you forever—and I knew I wanted to see her again. Even just once, even just so we had a goodbye more final than promising to stay in touch, only for our texts to space out, for our calls to shorten and then stop … I needed to get out of that darkness so I could <em>see,</em> could see her.</p>
<p>“I nearly barreled into a gentleman on the street. The streetlights were back. I watched the edges of the light with the kind of angry conviction I had in the basement, daring the darkness to try to interfere again with my finding Eliza, and there were simply … no more figures. No more hands like mouths, no more reaching, grasping things waiting for me to drop my guard.</p>
<p>“I, uh, called Eliza. We’re going for lunch once I’m finished here, actually. Funny the things that get you to reconnect with people, huh?</p>
<p>“Statement ends.”</p>
<p>Sasha ran a hand over her face and flipped to the research notes Martin had given her. “We contacted Erin Patel, and she seems to be doing just fine, now. Nothing more to add to her statement, she says, as she hasn’t seen any figures in the dark since then. She is, however, no longer living alone; it seems she and Elizabeth Lorne are engaged, and looking forward to a wedding this fall.” She smiled.</p>
<p>“All other details given by Ms. Patel are verifiable; she did live in an apartment on Kew Gardens road, she had worked at the National Archives for about four months before being asked to take leave, and she has not returned since. Ms. Lorne’s father was indeed murdered by one Robert Montauk, who murdered over forty people before his arrest shortly after the murder of Christopher Lorne, Ms. Lorne’s father. It seems that Mr. Lorne’s family had reported him missing six years prior to his death … They make no mention of a Sarah Lorne, and there is no marriage license.</p>
<p>“Mr. Montauk died in prison in 2002. We tried to contact his daughter, Ms. Julia Montauk, but it seems she’s been missing since 2010.</p>
<p>“We did get into contact with Mr. Benjamin Jones, for some corroboration of dates, and he confirmed that he and Ms. Patel had broken up prior to her moving to Richmond. He … seems to have been an unpleasant man to speak with.”</p>
<p>Sasha made a mental note to somehow make it up to Martin, that he had to speak with Mr. Jones.</p>
<p>"End recording."</p>
<p>Sasha sighed. Rubbed a hand over her face as she set the file off to the side. "At least it isn't Artifact Storage," she told herself. She might be spending the rest of her time working for the Institute recording and categorizing ghost stories, but at least she wouldn't be taking care of a mirror that didn't reflect her face right, or books which she had to sort without touching—and without letting them touch each other.</p>
<p>She ran a hand through her hair before writing, neatly, on a label: <em>#0121704, Patel.</em> She placed the statement and all relevant research back into the manila envelope. On a post-it, she jotted down some keywords that might aid in finding the statement again, should any researcher be interested: <em>childhood, house, haunting, darkness, visions/hallucinations</em> ... She chewed the end of her pen absentmindedly. Why hadn’t Gertrude done something similar? Even if some statements couldn’t record digitally, to at least make an entry for them in the Archives’ database and to include where to find the physical copy and its notes was the least she could’ve done …</p>
<p>“Knock knock,” Tim called, waltzing into her office. “I waited until it sounded like you were done, but if you’re—”</p>
<p>“I’ve finished.”</p>
<p>“Good, because I wasn’t really going to leave if you weren’t.” He grinned. Sasha rolled her eyes. “It’s lunchtime, let’s pry Jon away from his background checks and skepticism and go for food. I’m thinking Thai.”</p>
<p>“You’re always thinking Thai.”</p>
<p>“Guilty as charged.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Celebration</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Come on, it's your birthday!"</p>
<p>"It's a workday," Martin argued. "We can go—after the workday is over, or something, right? We don't want—I mean, what if—"</p>
<p>"What? What if someone comes down to the Archives today, like no one has before, to ask us for a file, or to check in, or—heavens me—what if someone comes to give a statement today?"</p>
<p>"Yes. Exactly."</p>
<p>Tim rolled his eyes. "Come on, Martin, hardly anyone seems to even know we’re down here. It's a Friday. No one's going to want to come down to the basement that is the Archives for any reason today. And we've worked! We’ve been here since nine—"</p>
<p>"And it's hardly past two—"</p>
<p>"We'll just be calling it an early day today, no big deal. And, look, if Elias starts asking questions, I'll take the fall for you. Or I'll just say that we were off, investigating something. He doesn't have to know!"</p>
<p>"Yeah, but what if—"</p>
<p>"No what ifs, Martin, come on. There's a lovely little ice cream parlor that just opened a couple of weeks ago, and I think you'll love it. It's got a kind of charm I think you'd really like."</p>
<p>"I—okay, that's sweet, but what if—"</p>
<p>"Sasha has already signed off on it, and she's even convinced Jon to come along too. Nothing can go wrong! It'll just be the Archives crew out for a bit of fun, a bit of sun, and absolutely no weird supernatural happenings. Come on."</p>
<p>“… all right, fine.”</p>
<p>Tim cheered. "Great! You're gonna love it. I mean, obviously, you don't <em>have</em> to love it or anything, and if you don't we'll just go somewhere else—it is your birthday, after all—but I think you'll love it. What's your favorite kind of ice cream? If it doesn't have it, we'll go somewhere else."</p>
<p>"Oh, uh. Just—Neapolitan."</p>
<p>"Combo of the classics, good choice. I'm sure it'll have that."</p>
<p>"I mean, if it doesn't, it's not a big deal, just one of the flavors is fine—"</p>
<p>"Well, if they don't have Neapolitan, but they have the three individually, then we'll just get you three scoops or something. One of each. Make your own Neapolitan."</p>
<p>"You don't have to—that's really not—"</p>
<p>"Hey, don't worry about it. It's your birthday, why not live a little?" He smiled. "They'll probably have it though. I mean, what place doesn't have Neapolitan?" He led Martin out of the Archives, Sasha and Jon meeting up with them in the hall.</p>
<p>"We're all ready to go, then?"</p>
<p>"Yeah. Happy birthday, Martin," Sasha said.</p>
<p>"Happy birthday," Jon echoed.</p>
<p>Martin smiled. "Thanks, guys. You really didn't have to—"</p>
<p>"Of course we didn’t <em>have</em> to,” she agreed. “But we’re choosing to. Come on, I think it should be a nice walk."</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>"Thank you," Martin said, looking down into his ice cream. "This has—this has been really nice. I—I wasn't expecting—"<p>"Hey." Tim bumped his shoulder into Martin's, gentle. "It's our pleasure, really. We're glad you had fun. Happy birthday."</p>
<p>"You—" He smiled, small, and blinked a couple of times, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "Thank you."</p>
<p>"Of course. You deserve nice stuff like this. I can't promise it'll always be ice cream, but, hey, what's life without a little variety, right?" He grinned. "I just hope hearing Jon talk about emulsifiers the whole time didn't permanently put you off Archives crew hang-out."</p>
<p>Martin laughed. "No, no, I don't—I don't think it did."</p>
<p>"Good." Tim turned his smile to Sasha and Jon, standing at the counter. "I'm glad, you know. That ... that you've enjoyed this, and that, well ... I know it can be rough, coming to a new workplace, especially one where it seems like everything's already been set up before you got there. But I hope you, uh, don't feel like it's like that, in the Archives. I mean. What we do is kinda weird, so I guess working there is gonna be a bit weird anyway, but ..." He shrugged. "You can talk to us, you know? It's not ... you're a part of the crew, too."</p>
<p>Martin bit his lip. "Thanks," he said. "I ... I'll keep that in mind."</p>
<p>"I just ..." Tim shrugged. "It seems like you've been holding back? I guess? I don't know, maybe that's not right, but I ... I don't want you to feel like you can't reach out or talk or anything. Like. Let Sasha know if there's something you don't want to have to investigate, if you've got your own phobias or anything. If you need help with getting people to give you certain information, I'm your guy. If you get lost in the Institute's library, then Jon can find whatever you're looking for ... you know?"</p>
<p>"I—thanks, Tim, really, but it's not—that's ..." He hunched his shoulders. "I'm not ... uncomfortable in the Archives because of you three or anything."</p>
<p>"... is something else going on?"</p>
<p>"I ... I don't know, I mean ..."</p>
<p>"Cross my heart, I won't say a word about this," Tim swore. "Anything you tell me. I can keep a secret."</p>
<p>"It's not ... I lied," he admitted, "on my CV. I—I needed this job—well, no, I just needed a job, any job, so I started lying just to see if I could get a foot in the door—anywhere—and this was ..." He sighed. "This was the only place that got back to me. Please don't tell anyone."</p>
<p>"Of course not. I won't. I mean, maybe you'll want to mention it to Sasha—I won't, I swear—but she's ... the type to find this stuff out, at least. And she won't fire you for it. She knows how it can be."</p>
<p>"Yeah, but what about Elias? She—wouldn't she have to ... tell him?"</p>
<p>Tim shrugged. "I dunno. I doubt it. Elias hasn't been to the Archives or anything, and, if he talks to her, it's over emails and stuff. I mean. Other than his coming to her party, which ..." He frowned. "Felt a little weird, don't you think?"</p>
<p>"Uh, I don't know, maybe?"</p>
<p>"Yeah, I ... I'm sure it's nothing. Just not used to the special attention that the Archivist gets, I guess. He hardly ever came to research, and definitely not for any birthdays." He smiled. "Maybe it's an Archivist tradition. Do you think he had wine with Gertrude for her birthdays? Maybe they were having some kind of torrid affair."</p>
<p>“You have—no reasoning behind that, do you?”</p>
<p>He shrugged. “Not really. Never met Gertrude, so … but with how Sasha describes her, I don’t think she’d have the patience for someone like Elias. He’s too … bureaucratic. Or—is it tasteless to make a mommy-dom joke?”</p>
<p>Martin choked on a laugh. “Did you—Christ, you never even met her, and you—”</p>
<p>“It is a bit weird, isn’t it? Maybe I shouldn’t speak ill of the missing. Wouldn’t want to draw her ire if she ever comes back.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>"I'm off to the police station, then," Tim announced. "Anyone want me to pick up anything on my way back? Tea, coffee, food?"<p>"I think we're good on expenses today, Tim," Sasha said with a smile. She kissed his cheek. "Go flirt some answers out of people. I'll be in my office."</p>
<p>"Martin? Jon? Anything you want?"</p>
<p>Jon glanced up at Tim over his files. "Some peace and quiet."</p>
<p>"Ouch." Tim grinned. "Duly noted, I'll be sure to be out of the way—I see how it is. Marto? Anything you want?"</p>
<p>"Oh, no, you've already done so much—"</p>
<p>"C'mon, I'm going out anyway."</p>
<p>"There's nothing—nothing I can think of. Thank you, though."</p>
<p>"Well, shoot me a text if you think of something. Anything." He winked. "Otherwise I'll just have to guess, and no one wants me doing that."</p>
<p>"Oh, uh—"</p>
<p>"I'll be back soon."</p>
<p>The door to the Archives closed behind him. Sasha shook her head and headed back into her office, pulling the door around. Martin sat at his desk and stared at the paperwork on it.</p>
<p>Jon cleared his throat, standing by Martin's desk.</p>
<p>"Sorry, did you need anything?" Martin's face heated.</p>
<p>"No, I ..." Jon set a small wrapped box on Martin's desk. "I hadn't brought it with us to the ice cream parlor. Happy birthday."</p>
<p>"Oh. Thank you."</p>
<p>"Yeah, I ... if you don't like it, I got a gift receipt, in case, but ..."</p>
<p>"No, no, I'm sure it's lovely—" Martin unfolded the wrapping carefully, pulling up each corner. Beneath it sat a tin of tea bags. Jasmine pearl tea, a kind Martin only occasionally splurged on, when he felt like celebrating, or when money wasn't so tight ... "Oh."</p>
<p>"Like I said, if you don't like it—"</p>
<p>"How did you know? It's ... it's my favorite."</p>
<p>"You, uh ... you bring it around, sometimes, not all the time, but ... when you have it, you seem to ... savor it, a little more, so I figured ... it must be a kind you like." He watched the opposite wall. "I'm glad you like it."</p>
<p>"Yes. Thank you. You didn't have—" Martin swallowed. "Just. Thanks."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Compassion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Oh, Martin?” Sasha called. “Could I speak with you, real quick? In my office.”</p>
<p>Tim grinned, nudging Martin with his elbow. “Uh oh,” he ribbed. “I hope someone’s not in trouble.” He snickered as Martin’s face went red. “Whatever she asks—whatever she says—remember: I’m completely innocent. Don’t let her take me.”</p>
<p>Martin gave a stiff half-laugh. Jon looked up from his work, his hair slipping from its bun. “The Archives would at least be more peaceful if she <em>did</em> take you away, Tim.”</p>
<p>“Aw, but you’d miss me too much.” He gave Martin a lopsided smile. “Isn’t that right?”</p>
<p>“Uh, yeah, definitely,” he stammered.</p>
<p>Sasha leaned against her office’s doorway. “Don’t incriminate him by association, Tim.”</p>
<p>“Remember, don’t turn me in,” he stage-whispered to Martin. “I’m innocent.”</p>
<p>“Like I’d need Martin’s testimony to incriminate you.” Sasha smiled. “I’ve witnessed enough of your crimes myself, don’t you think?”</p>
<p>Tim put a hand over his heart. “Betrayed by the hands—the lips—I most love—” He gave half a dramatic pause, before throwing a smirk at Jon, undermining his words, “Other than you, love.” Jon rolled his eyes and returned to his work, though his cheeks several shades darker as he did.</p>
<p>Sasha shook her head. “Anyway. Martin?”</p>
<p>“Oh, uh, right.” He stood and tried not to stumble on his way to Sasha and her office—with an unhelpful teasing shove from Tim.</p>
<p>“Go get her, tiger,” he said.</p>
<p>Martin gave him a half-chuckle. The door to Sasha’s office closed behind him, muffling the sounds of Tim’s own laughter, rendering his works indistinguishable as he talked to Jon.</p>
<p>“Care to sit?” Sasha asked, gesturing to the chair across from hers. Martin sat, stiff. Sasha sighed. “You can relax, Martin, you’re not in any trouble.” He hesitantly untensed his shoulders. “I’ve just got … a couple of questions, okay?”</p>
<p>“… okay?” he said, when it seemed the question wasn’t rhetorical.</p>
<p>She smiled, one of her small, gentle smiles, but with a slight crease in her brow—worried? Remorseful? <em>Oh, G-d, she’s going to fire me, I can’t—I can’t lose this job—</em><br/>“Martin, I was … doing a check, into your CV, looking for … well, a specialization, really, trying to fit the statements you research to your field of study, but … I think you know what I found, instead.”</p>
<p>Martin’s breath stuck in his throat. He froze, knuckles white as he gripped the armrests.</p>
<p>“I’m not going to fire you,” she continued, now looking just beyond Martin’s shoulder—like she understood how difficult eye contact might be at the moment. Confusion somewhat took over Martin’s panic. “While your compiling of research is … lacking—which makes sense, of course, academic writing is a process to learn—your skills with <em>speaking</em> to people exceed … at least my own and Jon’s.” She smiled. “Tim does give you a run for your money in that department.” Her smile dropped, hesitantly. She looked down at her hands and spread them out over the desk apologetically. “I just … would like to know why? Why you lied, to get here of all places. If—if that’s too personal, I understand. I just …”</p>
<p>Martin stared at Sasha’s desk. “I, uh. I needed the money. <em>Need</em> the money,” he corrected. “I—my mom—things have been … hard. Lately.” He winced. “Uh. For a while. Paying for her—she—she’s in a home, right now, and—” His voice cracked. Sasha nodded.</p>
<p>“Okay. Okay. Well. I don’t see any reason to tell Elias—it’s his own fault if he doesn’t conduct thorough background checks, and we’re better for it here. Your work is satisfactory, and I appreciate not having to worry about <em>two</em> workaholics—”</p>
<p>“Three,” Martin interjected, absently. Sasha blinked at him. His face flushed. “I, uh. I mean. It would be three. You and Jon both already—it’s impossible to tear you two away from your work. I don’t know how Tim does it—oh, G-d, sorry, that’s—unprofessional, I didn’t mean—”</p>
<p>Sasha’s laughter cut him off. He stared, until she hid her mouth behind her hand. “Uh. Yes. Sorry.” She cleared her throat. “I do suppose I can get rather … preoccupied. At least you’re here to help speak to the outside world and remind us to take tea breaks.”</p>
<p>“Like a glorified secretary.”</p>
<p>“Yes, well …” Sasha shrugged. “I don’t know, the desk job is comfortable, isn’t it? Nothing like Artifact Storage, at least.”</p>
<p>“Oh—I—I didn’t mean to sound—ungrateful, or—”</p>
<p>“Martin? Do shut up.” Sasha shook her head with a laugh. “Complaining about a boring job is normal, <em>expected.</em> Like I said, I won’t fire you. And if you want help with your writing, you can always ask me or Tim. Jon too, I suppose, though he … can be a harsh critic.” She gave a wry smile. “It’s helpful in the long run, but the first read-through of all his red marks definitely … smarts. The reports of mine he read through were … certainly some of the best I did, in the end, but …” She shook her head again. “Anyway. Thank you for your hard work. If Tim or Jon give you a hard time, just let me know, all right? They can each be a different type of handful.” She rolled her eyes with a fond smile.</p>
<p>“Uh, all—all right.”</p>
<p>“Good. That’s all. Oh. Wait, actually.” She rifled through a stack of folders on her desk. “Here are some things I’d appreciate you three looking into. Here’s your folder, Tim’s, and Jon’s. If you have any questions, feel free to knock on my door.”</p>
<p>“Right. Yeah.”</p>
<p>Sasha smiled. “Thank you, Martin.” With that, she turned to her laptop, a notebook, and one of the large books on her desk—<em>Fear, Time, and Memory: Recollecting Trauma</em>—and Martin awkwardly shuffled out of her office.</p>
<p>He paused at the door. “Uh, Sasha?”</p>
<p>“Yes?”</p>
<p>“Did you … did you just find it, on my CV, or did …”</p>
<p>Her brow furrowed. She looked up at him. “Um, no offense, Martin, but … it wasn’t a particularly good lie. It wasn’t too hard to find. I hadn’t even found evidence you continued to sixth form, so …”</p>
<p>“Oh. Right.” He bit his lip. “So no one told you, then?”</p>
<p>“No.” Her face softened. “If you told anyone in the Archives, they hadn’t told me.”</p>
<p>“Okay. Um. Thank you.”</p>
<p>She smiled. “Have a good day, Martin.”</p>
<p>He stepped out of the office.</p>
<p>Tim leaned against the wall. “You didn’t give me away, right?” he asked, eyes bright.</p>
<p>Martin huffed a small laugh. “No, but Sasha did give you more work.” He handed Tim’s folder over. He flicked through it.</p>
<p>“Oh, lovely,” he said dryly. “Masks of skin, marionette puppets strung with treated human intestines, and extra rows of teeth used for cannibalism, oh my.” Tim rolled his eyes with a wrinkle of his nose. Martin winced. “Hope your topic’s a little easier to stomach.”</p>
<p>“Thanks.”</p>
<p>“Guess I’m off to the library.” Tim gave Martin a wave and stopped by Jon’s desk to give him a quick kiss on the cheek on his way out.</p>
<p>Martin looked studiously away for that, and he waited until Tim was out of the room to hand Jon his folder.</p>
<p>Martin tried not to see Jon’s eyes linger on the door after Tim, or the dark blush on his skin, or how he lightly touched his cheek once Tim was out of sight. Martin held out the folder, looking down.</p>
<p>“Sasha wants you to look into this.”</p>
<p>Jon took the folder without looking up at him. “Thank you, Martin,” he said, and absently flipped through the folder. He grimaced, but he turned to his laptop and started typing without comment.</p>
<p>Nerves still thrummed through Martin, but he sat at his own desk and opened his folder.</p>
<p>Spiders. Okay. That wasn’t so bad. Types of spiders and where they were native and—</p>
<p>Martin swallowed. And stories of grown adults eaten, cocooned, and otherwise killed by spiders. Lovely.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Headstone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing here, Jon. There’s—there’s something going on that’s so much bigger than—than I know or that Gertrude told me or left—there’s something here, beneath all this confusion of statements and files that aren’t put in their proper place, and it all has to <em>mean</em> something. I just—I don’t know what, not yet, but I—I think we have to get to the bottom of it.” She swallowed. “I think <em>I</em> have to get to the bottom of it, at least, or … I don’t know. I don’t know what would happen if I didn’t, if I couldn’t, but I think—I think it’d be bad. If whatever is happening here went unwitnessed. Went un-understood. But I don’t—there’s something going on, and I—I don’t even know the shape of it. But—there are people who do, I think, people mentioned in the statements—I just—” She sighed. Gave Jon an almost-smile. “You know, I think Gerard Keay would have been really helpful. It seems—he knew something, somehow, you know? I don’t—I don’t know what, but he—he responded better to the—the boiling skin guy than I would’ve, that’s for sure.” She tried to laugh, but it sounded just a bit too hysterical, just a little too desperate. Jon ran a hand through her hair, pulled her closer.</p>
<p>“We’ll get to the bottom of this,” he promised. “I don’t know how, or what we’ll find when we do, but we will.”</p>
<p>Sasha nodded. “All right. All right.” She bit her lip. “I just—and if it’s dangerous? Maybe you—you shouldn’t—”</p>
<p>“You are not pushing me away from this right now. That’s not—you’re not allowed to do that. I want—I want to know where this ends just as much as you do, you can’t throw me out of it now. Not just—you can’t do this on your own, not if you think it’s dangerous. I’m not—I’m not going to let you do this on your own just because you feel it’s too dangerous for anyone to go with you. You—if it’s so dangerous, then you <em>shouldn’t</em> go alone. Sasha, come on.”</p>
<p>She sighed. “Fine. Fine. I won’t—but you’ve got to promise to be careful.”</p>
<p>“Only if you promise to do the same.”</p>
<p>“I’m always careful.”</p>
<p>“Then so am I.”</p>
<p>She frowned. “All right, fine, I’ll promise to be careful as you are.”</p>
<p>“I disagree with that phrasing—”</p>
<p>“That’s as good as you’re going to get.”</p>
<p>“Fine. All right. We’ll both be careful, we’ll both be safe, and we’ll both make it through to the end of … whatever this is.” He frowned. “You’re sure you think that Gertrude did this on purpose?”</p>
<p>“Yes. You … you never met her, did you?”</p>
<p>“Only once. And it was in passing. I’ll admit I really didn’t think she seemed the type to have her Archives like … well, like this, but …”</p>
<p>“That’s because she wasn’t. She wouldn’t have done something like this if it weren’t on purpose. I just—I just don’t know what she was thinking, what she was up to—and I don’t know why she would’ve chosen me for this job and then not told me what was going on. If there’s something more here—don’t you think she would’ve known? She wasn’t one to let people keep secrets when they affected her—and I doubt secrets around here, whatever she was trying to—to keep hidden or whatever—was something that wouldn’t have affected her.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know.” Jon sighed. “I don’t know how much we’ll be able to piece together either. Not at least without … talking, maybe, to someone who used to know her, or maybe by—maybe our best bet right now is just to reorganize everything and try to see if there’s anything obvious she was trying to hide throughout it all, but I don’t—I don’t know. She seemed—no-nonsense, to say the least, so I—” He sighed. “I don’t know. But there’s not much that we can piece together right now. We should … we should head to bed, yeah? Come one. I think Tim’s already up there waiting for us.”</p>
<p>Sasha hummed and smiled, just a little. “Yeah, he probably is, isn’t he?”</p>
<p>“Just a matter of time before he comes down here to get us, too.”</p>
<p>“Yeah. All right. Let’s go.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>"Surprise!" Tim, Sasha, and Martin cheered. Tim blew a party horn. Jon, a hand coming to his chest, stumbled back into the door.<p><em>"Jesus,"</em> he hissed.</p>
<p>"Happy birthday, Jon," Tim said.</p>
<p>Sasha smiled and walked over to him. "Happy birthday," she said, quieter, and held out her arms. Jon gratefully leaned into her embrace. "Are you all right?"</p>
<p>"Yes, yes, I'm—I'm fine, just—just a shock, is all." He sighed. "Can't pretend I was expecting this."</p>
<p>"Well, that was the idea," Tim commented.</p>
<p>"Sorry, sorry," Martin said, his voice overlapping, "it's just, Tim wanted to surprise you—"</p>
<p>"Snitch."</p>
<p>"No, really, it's all right, Martin. I just—thank you. Though, uh, honestly, the bottle of wine was just fine." He glanced at Tim, who grinned.</p>
<p>"Yeah, as a decoy."</p>
<p>Jon shook his head. "And we couldn't just celebrate at home?" he muttered.</p>
<p>"Come on, this way Martin's here, too," Sasha said. She kissed Jon's forehead. "It'll be fun."</p>
<p>"I thought there was something you needed to talk about—"</p>
<p>"Nope, no work talk right now. It was all a decoy, and, even if it weren't, all work-related things can wait until later." She cocked her head. "Plus, it <em>was</em> kind of fun, giving you a heart attack."</p>
<p>"Mm, I’m sure." He rolled his eyes. "Yet I notice you didn’t jump out at <em>Martin</em> when he had a birthday."</p>
<p>"Are you kidding?" Tim grinned. "He's <em>way</em> too jumpy as is." He lightly ribbed Martin with his elbow. "We were worried he might damage himself."</p>
<p>"Hey!" Martin crossed his arms. "Well—I preferred going for ice cream anyway."</p>
<p>"You went for ice cream?"</p>
<p>Sasha shook her head. "You were <em>there.</em>"</p>
<p>"You had rum and raisin," Martin confirmed, "and taught us all about emulsifiers."</p>
<p>"Ah. Uh." Jon cleared his throat. "I remember."</p>
<p>"Liar," Sasha murmured, fond.</p>
<p>"Well—thank you. This is all—very touching." He tucked a stray piece of hair behind his ear. "I really don't see why we couldn't have done this outside of work hours, though."</p>
<p>"C'mon, Jon, lighten up." Tim waved him over. "We've got a couple more surprises in store."</p>
<p>"Well ..." He sighed. "All right. I suppose it couldn't hurt."</p>
<p>"That's the spirit."</p>
<p>Sasha kissed Jon's cheek and walked with him to her desk.</p>
<p>"C'mon, presents first?"</p>
<p>"You didn't have to—"</p>
<p>"Yeah, yeah, but we wanted to. Besides, nothing big, we promise." Tim put a hand over his chest. "Cross my heart."</p>
<p>"That's not especially reassuring," Jon grumbled, but he let Tim sit him down. "Fine, fine, all right—"</p>
<p>"No, you've got to close your eyes first."</p>
<p>"Why? If you didn't wrap them, it's fine, I don't—"</p>
<p>"Close your eyes, or I won't get them out."</p>
<p>"All right, all right." Jon closed his eyes. "Are you happy now?"</p>
<p>"Yes." Tim kissed Jon's temple. "Thanks, babe."</p>
<p>"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, cheeks darkening slightly.</p>
<p>There was the clink and clatter of ceramic. “Don’t open your eyes,” Tim said. “Martin, watch him.”</p>
<p>“I don’t need to be watched—”</p>
<p>“C’mon, humor me.”</p>
<p>“Fine.”</p>
<p>Once more came the <em>chink</em> of ceramic being placed on something, this time just in front of Jon, and then the scratch-and-hiss of— “Is that a match? Sasha, did he—”</p>
<p>“Stop worrying so much, Jon,” she said with a laugh.</p>
<p>There was another crackle-and-hiss, and the smell of a struck match filled Sasha's office. Jon frowned. "Really, Tim, this is highly inappropriate, and—unprofessional, to have a lit flame in the Archives—"</p>
<p>"Yes, yes, I'm sure, an open ignition source? In the Archives? Let the gods say it isn't so." Tim chuckled. "You can open your eyes now."</p>
<p>A cake sat on the desk in front of Jon, with Sasha, Martin, and Tim standing on the other side. Lit candles decorated it.</p>
<p>"Happy birthday to you," Tim started. The others joined in. "Happy birthday to you—"</p>
<p>"Yes, yes, thank you—"</p>
<p>"Happy birthday, dear Jon—" They extended his name for two syllables.</p>
<p>"All right, yes—"</p>
<p>"Happy birthday to you!"</p>
<p>Jon sighed. "Yes, thank you, now—"</p>
<p>"C'mon, you've got to blow them out now," Sasha said.</p>
<p>"And make a wish. Can't forget that," Tim added.</p>
<p>Jon's throat tightened, and his chest swelled, fondness making his breath catch. "Right," he murmured. He closed his eyes. <em>I just want this,</em> he wished. <em>Just this.</em> He blew out the candles.</p>
<p>Tim cheered. "What did you wish for?"</p>
<p>"I can't tell you, or else it won't come true, right?"</p>
<p>Tim pouted. "He's got you there," Sasha said. She kissed Tim's cheek. "Come on, it's not the end of the world."</p>
<p>"Fine, fine. Don't tell me. Wine, anyone?"</p>
<p>"Tim, it's eleven in the morning—"</p>
<p>He popped the cork from the bottle. "Yeah, at your birthday party." And started pouring into glasses.</p>
<p>“I <em>really</em> don’t think it’s appropriate—”</p>
<p>“Loosen up, Jon,” Sasha said. “I’m your boss, aren’t I? I think wine is the perfect addition to our workplace celebration. Martin?”</p>
<p>“Oh, I, uh—I don’t—normally—drink wine, you know—tannins are a proven headache trigger, and so—”</p>
<p>“<em>Martin.</em>”</p>
<p>“What—uh—yeah, sure, maybe, just uh, a drop.”</p>
<p>Jon furrowed his brow. “You know that there’s a lot of tannin in tea as well, don’t you?”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Is info-dumping at birthdays going to be an Archives tradition?” Tim asked with a smile.</p>
<p>“Well, it’s just—it’s not even necessarily a headache trigger, tannins cause a release of serotonin, which at high levels <em>can</em> cause headaches in some people, but low levels of serotonin are thought to cause migraines as well—”</p>
<p>Tim shook his head with a smile and gestured for Sasha to pull up the other chairs. He cut the cake while Jon talked.</p>
<p>“—not even necessarily the tannins in wine which cause headaches. There’s one theory—which pertains more to red wine than white—that the cause is histamine, a compound found in grape skins—red wines contain more histamine than white wine due to being made from the whole grape, as opposed to just the juice. Some people lack enough of the enzyme which breaks down histamine in the small intestine, and alcohol inhibits the enzyme as well, leading to an excess of histamine in the blood—which can then dilate blood vessels and cause headaches.</p>
<p>“Another theory, though perhaps with even less evidence than the rest—not than any of these theories is much more than conjecture—is that sulfites, a preservative in wine, are to blame—but these are found in white wines and other foods, as well, plus they’re more likely to cause breathing problems than—”<br/>Tim shared a smile with Sasha as he passed out the cake. They settled into their seats to listen as Jon continued.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>“In your own time, you can write your statement down. I’ll be in the room over, in case you need me—”<p>“Oh, uh, actually, would—would you mind staying? Please? I don’t want to be alone.”</p>
<p>"If you're sure."</p>
<p>"Yes. Please."</p>
<p>"All right." Sasha sat back down and folded her hands. "Statement of Naomi Herne, 13th of January, 2016. Statement recorded directly from subject. Statement begins."</p>
<p>"I guess it started when I met Evan. I’ve never really been the social type. I’ve always been more comfortable alone, you know? My father died when I was five, and my mother spent so much of her time working that I hardly ever saw her. I was never bullied in school—to be bullied, you had to be noticed, and I ensured that I was never noticed, continuing through secondary school and then in uni at Leeds. I was simply ... more comfortable in my own company, I suppose. I was happier by myself.</p>
<p>"Or ... maybe happier isn't the right word. I was lonely, sometimes, I suppose—I'd hear a group of friends laughing down the hallway, or I'd see people talking together between classes, and I'd think how maybe I would want something like that ... but it never really bothered me. Not enough to do anything about it, at least.</p>
<p>"The only person who was really concerned about it was Pastor David. He worked in the Chaplaincy, and I saw him occasionally when work or stress was getting to me. He'd tell me that it wasn't natural for people to live in isolation, that we needed community ... he invited me to potlucks and things, but I didn't go to many. Still, I remember he always used to say that he was 'worried I’d get lost.' He'd say it with this sad look in his eyes, like he wanted to help but didn't think he could ...</p>
<p>"I never understood what he meant. I think I do now, though ...</p>
<p>"Anyway. I graduated three years ago, with a first in Chemistry and no real friends to speak of—and that was fine by me. Or ... I thought it was.</p>
<p>"I got a job as a science technician down in Woking. It didn’t pay well, and the children were a thick, entitled lot, but it was enough to live on, and kept me close enough to London that I could apply for the various lab jobs that I actually wanted. It was interviewing for one of these where I met Evan.</p>
<p>"He was going for the same position as I was: lab assistant in one of the UCL Biochemistry departments. He got the job, in the end, but I didn’t care. He was so unlike anyone I’d ever met before. He started talking to me before the interview, and I—I started talking back.</p>
<p>"I don't know what came over me. I mean, I came to learn that was just how Evan was, or how I was with him, but at the time ... he started asking me questions, and I answered, without feeling self-conscious about it at all—and I asked him questions too, like we had known each other for years and were just now catching up—</p>
<p>"When he was called in for his interview, that's what it felt like, really. That I had just seen a lifelong friend for the first time in years, only to have him pulled away again. It was—I'd say it was like a pang of loss, but it was ... it was almost like I had been living all my life not knowing, not truly knowing, what I was missing, not connecting to people, and this was ... a rude reminder, or awakening, at how lonely my life really was. It just took meeting Evan to learn that I—I <em>didn't</em> want to spend my life without anyone.</p>
<p>"I got called in for my own interview shortly after. It was somewhat disastrous, but—when I left the building, there he was, waiting for me, like we had made plans to meet up after our interviews—maybe like we always had, that going for lunch once a week or so was a fixture of our lives, and—I had never felt happier.</p>
<p>"The next few years were the happiest of my life. Evan had his friends, who came to be our friends, but I was never pressured to see them, if I didn't want to. A couple of them even encouraged me to pick up some hobbies with them—I didn't stick with some of them, like knitting and sculpting, though the groups were fun, but ... I did keep up painting, after taking a few classes—after about a year with Evan, I had what might've been called a social life, and it ... almost felt like it was how my life was always meant to be, you know? Even Pastor David seemed relieved, when we spoke. I mean. I still hadn't really understood what he meant by lost, but I knew that I couldn't be lost so long as I was with Evan—or so long as I had Evan waiting for me at home at all. He was just like a ... beacon, in my life, and made everything brighter by being there.</p>
<p>“I … I don’t want to go into what happened to him. I’m sorry, I—I can’t. A heart problem. Congenital. There all along, just … It couldn’t have been stopped or prevented or—there was nothing anyone could have done.</p>
<p>“And then I was alone again.</p>
<p>"I ... don't remember much of the following week. Evan's body, and medical expenses, and the funeral arrangements ... I didn't know at the time, I guess, or maybe I did and just ... couldn't bring myself to care ... but his family—who he had never spoken of, never brought me to visit—handled everything.</p>
<p>"Evan had never really talked about his family. He definitely never went into specifics, and they weren't even invited to the wedding. He came from a ... sprawling family, I guess is how I'd put it, with a lot of money and a lot of traditions. Evan said they disagreed about religion. Evan had ... some problems, I guess you'd say, with faith. Not problems with people who believed, just ... G-d always seemed far away to him, he said. More like a voyeur and nothing like a good parent—I don't know. I mean, I've always had my own perspective on faith and was never really active in the congregation, but Evan ... there was something about G-d being so distant, so ... cold to him, that rubbed him wrong about it, so I don't ...</p>
<p>"But his family still handled all the arrangements. Which ... maybe it's wrong of me, but I'm ... I mean, I'm sure Evan would have rathered that I handled it, if only so he didn't have to be buried with ... but I don't think I could've done anything useful in those days after his death. Not paying the medical bills, and definitely not handling securing a plot at a graveyard, or getting a coffin, or contacting a mortician, or—I don't know. I doubt I could've handled it very well.</p>
<p>"I'm still not ... handling it very well.</p>
<p>"About a week after Evan's death, I received the invitation to his funeral. It was being held on a family property, the Moorland House. I went, though ... I don't remember much of the drive there. It was ... foggy, I think, and I got turned around a couple of times, lost in the countryside and its side roads ... The land looked like it stretched out forever, swallowed by an obscured horizon ... I don't know.</p>
<p>"I arrived, though. I knocked on the door. I had never considered if Evan would look like his family, but ... when an older man opened the door, he ... he looked like Evan. Exactly like Evan, if age had stolen away every morsel of happiness and joy and light that Evan once had. He wasn't frowning or scowling or anything at me, and yet ... it felt like the disdain on his face spoke to more than just a grief, more than just that he didn't know me and yet I had been so close to Evan ... it almost felt like blame.</p>
<p>"He didn't introduce himself to me, and he didn't ask who I was. He just gestured to another door and said, 'My son is in there. He is dead.'</p>
<p>"I went to see him. He looked ... he was so still. I don't know, you know how people sometimes describe the dead as calm, as looking like they're just sleeping? Evan didn't look like that. He was just ... too still. Even in his sleep, he moved and sometimes mumbled or grumbled, and he was always so expressive, even in his sleep, and now he just ... he just laid there, not moving, and I—</p>
<p>"He didn't look peaceful. He looked dead, empty, and I ...</p>
<p>"I don't know how long I stood there. It felt like seconds, but when I turned around I almost shrieked to see dozens of black-clad figures stood there, staring at me. The rest of the Lukas family were standing, waiting without a word, as though I was between them and their prey. Which I suppose, in some ways, I was. Finally, an old man walked forward. He was small and hunched with age, his black suit hanging off his body like sagging flaps of skin. He spoke, 'It’s time for you to leave. The burial is a family affair. I’m sure you want to be alone.'</p>
<p>"I tried to reply but the words stuck in my throat. They stood there, waiting for me to respond or to leave, and I realized the old man was right. I did want to leave, to be alone. I couldn't—I couldn't stand to be there another moment, in a house that felt colorless, watching the lifeless body of my fiance ... I felt like, if I didn't leave then, I would become just as colorless as the room, like it might make me nothing more than a silhouette, a decoration piece in a house that felt like mourning itself ...</p>
<p>"I left the house. Ran out, really, right into the storm.  Inside my car, I just turned on the engine and began to drive. I didn’t know where I was going, and could barely see a thing through my tears and the driving rain, but it didn’t matter. Just as long as I kept going, as long as I didn’t have to stop and think about what had just happened. Looking back, the only thing that surprises me about the crash is that it wasn’t bad enough to kill me.</p>
<p>"When I became aware of myself again, I realized I was in the middle of a field, quite a distance from the road. The tracks behind me showed where I had skidded into the dirt. Luckily I hadn’t hit anything or flipped over, but smoke billowed from the engine of my poor old Astra, and it was clear I wasn’t going anywhere. It was dark, and the time on my dashboard said twelve minutes past eleven. My phone said the same thing. I had arrived at Moorland House at 6 o’clock, as instructed. Had I been driving for hours, or had I spent even longer with Evan’s body than I thought? I hadn’t hit anything, so I couldn’t have been knocked unconscious. Had I just been sitting there in my smoking car all that time?</p>
<p>"It didn’t matter.</p>
<p>"The rain beat down hard against my car, like a drum, but the roaring was so loud that it faded into nothing, like white noise, like the kind of static that was deafening. I tried my phone, tried to call for help, but it just read 'no service,' and I didn't have access to the GPS on it, either.</p>
<p>"I got out of my car. I couldn't just sit there and do nothing—but it also only took moments for the rain to soak me through. I was drenched and didn't know where I was and couldn't see through the darkness, the rain, or the fog that had accompanied the storm. Everything was dark and gray and shadowed, some things stark in my car's headlights. They were the only lights near the street at all.</p>
<p>"I made the decision to turn right, hoping that, if I walked long enough, I'd either find someone who would help me, or come across a place with service, at the very least, so I could use my phone.</p>
<p>"Of course, this reminded me of my phone, and I checked it in my bag to find that the rain had soaked through that, too. Trying the power button confirmed my fears; my phone wasn't working, and only gave me a black screen in response, and I—anger surged through me, at my phone, at my car, at the road that had led me nowhere, at the surroundings I couldn't recognize—at the world, for taking Evan from me. I threw my phone on the ground and watched it shatter.</p>
<p>"It didn't make me feel any better.</p>
<p>"I started walking again, after that. It was the only thing I could do, really. I kept an eye out for any cars coming, walking close enough to the road to see the headlights, but not in it, in case someone coming down the road was driving too fast or couldn't see me through the fog or ... I don't know. Maybe I should have just walked on the road itself, though, because ...</p>
<p>"After I don't know how long, the road ... vanished, into the rain, or the fog, or the dark. I don't know when it happened, if it happened at the same time as when the rain stopped and just became fog, or if it happened before, and I just hadn't noticed ... but then I was standing in what looked like a field, in a half-light like just before sunrise in the fog, with the grass a near-colorless gray-blue, spread around me until it disappeared in the fog.</p>
<p>"I hadn't walked away from the road. I wouldn't have done that. But it was just ... gone. I tried walking towards where it was supposed to be, but I couldn't find it. I kept walking, because I didn't know what else to do, and the fog just went on forever.</p>
<p>"My feet hurt. It was cold, and the ground was wet beneath me, and my shoes sank into it. Water seeped into them, uncomfortable, and my socks rubbed at my heels. But I couldn't stop. I just ...</p>
<p>"I kept going until I came to what looked like a graveyard, if only ... in progress. There were headstones, white against the gray of everything else, but the graves … they were only holes in the ground. None of them were filled in; it was just row after row of graves.</p>
<p>“I went towards one and looked inside. It was empty. Completely empty. A six-foot deep hole that, I’m sure, if I fell into it, I wouldn’t be coming back out of.</p>
<p>“It wasn’t dug up, exactly. The hole was neat, square and deep, as though ready for a burial. At the bottom there was a coffin. It was open, and there was nothing inside. I backed away, and almost fell into another open grave behind me. I started to look around the cemetery with increasing panic. Every grave was open and they were all empty. Even here among the dead, I was alone.</p>
<p>“As I stared, the fog began to weigh me down. It coiled about me, its formless damp clung to me and began to drag, pulling me gently, slowly, towards the waiting pit. I tried to back away, but the ground was slick with dew and I fell. My fingers dug into the soft cemetery dirt as I looked around desperately for anything I could use to save myself, and my hand closed upon that heavy piece of headstone. It took all my self-control to keep a grip on that anchor, as I slowly dragged myself away from the edge of my lonely grave. Flowing around me, the very air itself willed me inside, but I struggled to my feet. The image of Evan’s family suddenly came into my mind, and I vowed to myself that they would not be the last human contact I ever had.</p>
<p>“I looked towards the chapel, and saw with a start that the door was now open, the heavy chain discarded on steps in front. I ran to it as quickly as I could, crying out for help, but when I reached the threshold I stopped, and could only stare in horror. Through that door, where the inside of the chapel should be, was a field. It was bathed in sickly moonlight, and the fog rolled close to the ground. It seemed to stretch for miles, and I knew that I could wander there for years, and never meet another. I turned away from that door, but as I looked behind me I could have wept - beyond the graveyard’s edge lay that same field. Stretching off into the distance.</p>
<p>“I had to make a choice, and so I began to run from that chapel, into the field behind me. I nearly fell into a hungry grave but kept my balance well enough to get beyond them. The fog seemed to be getting thicker, and moving through it was getting harder. It was like I was running against the wind, except the air was completely still. I could hardly breathe as I inhaled it.</p>
<p>“And then, as I found myself in the middle of that open, desolate field, I heard something. It was the strangest thing, but as I tried to run I could have sworn I heard Evan’s voice call to me. He said, ‘Turn left.’ That’s it. That’s all he said. I know it sounds ridiculous, but that’s what he told me to do. And I did it. I turned sharply to the left and kept on running. And then … nothing.”</p>
<p>Naomi sat with her hands folded and her eyes on the desk between them.</p>
<p>"And that's when the car hit you?" Sasha prompted. Naomi jerked, just slightly, like she had forgotten Sasha was sitting there, like she had forgotten there was anything more than her voice and the soft hum of the tape recorder.</p>
<p>"Yes. I remember a second of headlights and then nothing until I woke up in the hospital."</p>
<p>Sasha frowned. "I see ..." She marked the date Naomi said the funeral took place on, writing it on a simple note, and jotted down a reminder to have Tim follow up on when Naomi had been admitted to the hospital—and when she had woken up.</p>
<p>"So ... what do you think? Was it real?"</p>
<p>Sasha looked to Naomi. Naomi sat with her hands clasped tight, like she was trying not to fidget in her seat. She chewed on her lip. Her hair was pulled back, but had some fly-aways and pieces falling from her hair-tie around her ears. Her eyes shone hopeful, brighter than they had before her statement, like being listened to—being seen—rejuvenated her.</p>
<p>"I'm not sure that's my place to say," Sasha said. "It is, of course, as real as far as the very real effect which trauma can have on the mind, and its happening to you as you perceive it is real insofar that you're going to have to live with this experience as you know it, and cope. We will look into every aspect and possibility of this—if you could leave the stone for us to study, I would appreciate it. And it might help you to ... move on, from this incident. I can't say much one way or the other without further investigation, but we can get back to you with our findings. In the meantime, I would recommend perhaps seeking out a qualified care professional, with whom you can work through your grief and recent experiences—"</p>
<p>"But do you believe me?"</p>
<p>"I'm sorry?"</p>
<p>"Are you recommending I see a professional because you think I'm imagining things, or because you think there's something to this, that I'm telling the truth and need to—" She bit her lip. "I'm grieving Evan, yes. I'm not crazy."</p>
<p>"You've been through a lot," Sasha replied, "and, believe me, we will be taking your statement seriously. The problem with the question of 'real' when it comes to these things, though ... 'real' or 'not real' isn't the difference between it happened or it didn't. It's not the difference of you're telling the truth or you're lying, and it's not the difference between you saw what you saw or your eyes were tricking you. It's not even the difference between what we can prove and what we can't—there are plenty of <em>real</em> things that we can't explain or understand, that we don't know why they do what they do or how they work ..." She sighed. "'Real' is a much more complicated problem. So I will do my best, and my team will do their best, and we will get back to you on what we find, if you want to hear from us about this again. If not, we'll keep our findings for the researchers or other people who come in with questions and try to help them as best we can, and we'll leave you alone. You don't have to think more about this is you don't want to."</p>
<p>"I doubt I have much of a choice in that regard."</p>
<p>Sasha frowned. "I suppose not ... Still, no reason for us to make it worse for you if you'd rather we not."</p>
<p>"No, I—I want to hear from you. If you find anything more. Please."</p>
<p>"Of course." Sasha nodded. "I'll be in touch shortly, then."</p>
<p>"Thank you."</p>
<p>"Have a nice day. One of my assistants can help you find your way out of here."</p>
<p>"Thanks," Naomi said again. She left with an almost-smile.</p>
<p>Sasha closed her eyes and rested her head on the desk. "Statement ends," she said, and switched off the tape recorder.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>“Hey, are you all right?”<p>“What?” Sasha lifted her head from her desk. “Oh, uh, yes, yes, I’m—I’m fine. Don’t worry about me, I just—I don’t know.”</p>
<p>Martin’s face softened. “Do you want some tea? It’s just about lunch break. Tim’s already out getting you and Jon food, I think.”</p>
<p>“… and Jon?”</p>
<p>“The library. I doubt he’ll be out until someone collects him.”</p>
<p>She chuckled. “Yeah, that makes sense. Um. If you’re making tea anyway, sure. Thank you, Martin.”</p>
<p>“No problem. I’ll just be—one moment.”</p>
<p>“Right.” Sasha pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to fix her hair, pushing it from her face and trying to pin it back. She sighed. Rubbed a hand over her eyes, just to see if that would rub the tiredness from her as well—</p>
<p>“Do you have a preference for what kind of tea?” Martin asked.</p>
<p>“Oh, uh. Something with caffeine?” She gave him a small, sheepish smile.</p>
<p>“Right, no problem.” He hesitated in the doorway. “Not sleep well?”</p>
<p>“Uh, no, I don’t think it’s that.” She shrugged. “I’m not sure … it’s probably nothing.”</p>
<p>“Are you sure?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I … I don’t know. There was … someone came in with a live statement today, and it just … took a lot out of me, I guess. It wasn’t … bad, I don’t think, and I—well, I think it helped her, having someone to tell the statement to, but … I’m not sure …” She shook her head. “Don’t worry about me. Just … I’ll be all right, after a moment or two.”</p>
<p>Martin frowned. "... do you want to talk about it? I mean, if taking a live statement is so ... difficult, maybe talking about it would help? Like, if you think that giving the statement helped her, then maybe talking about it would help you, too?"</p>
<p>Sasha gave him a tired, fond smile. "Thanks, Martin," she said, "but I don't know ..."</p>
<p>"How about you come with me to the break-room? You should probably be getting out of your office more, anyway, and I can start the tea, and you can ... talk. Not about the statement, if you don't want to, but just ... in general. Maybe it'll help you feel better."</p>
<p>"... all right," Sasha agreed. Martin smiled.</p>
<p>She followed him to the break-room.</p>
<p>"There isn't much to say," she admitted. "I'm not ... upset or anything, it wasn't anything like that. It wasn't even a particularly difficult statement, not like some of them—I mean, the woman recently lost her fiance, and that's hard, but ... she was alone and lost in the fog for a few hours. Terrifying, I'm sure, at the time, but to just hear it ... shouldn't have taken so much out of me.</p>
<p>"Maybe it's just that it was in-person. I'm used to reading the statements aloud, from the written account—I'm used to already having the follow-up research done prior to the recording of the statement, and already knowing roughly what I'm about to read. Maybe it's the need to be so careful, with people, coming in after something traumatic has just happened to them ... I wonder if the Institute knows of any therapists who are open to the possibility of the paranormal, to better help people after their experiences ..."</p>
<p>Martin busied himself with putting the kettle on the stove-top and preparing the tea bags. "That might be a good idea," he said. "If people want help, it'd probably be a good idea for them to see someone who won't disregard what they've gone through."</p>
<p>"Or someone who would act like it's all a metaphor for what really went on. Which might be less damaging than disregarding it, but ..." She shrugged. "People deserve good therapists. It might take a while to compile a list of people who are both taking new patients and are good therapists, especially for this kind of trauma, but ... I think it'd be worth looking into."</p>
<p>"Another thing for the Archives to work on."</p>
<p>"How many on-going projects is that now?"</p>
<p>"How are we counting them? Is the database one project, or is each thing you and Jon keep talking about doing with it its own project?"</p>
<p>"Depends." She smiled. "If we're talking how its organized, that's included in the making of the database. If we're talking about the digital markers and pages for reoccurring figures and places, that might have to be its own project."</p>
<p>"And maybe each person's page is its own project, too. Figuring out what happened to who when and what they were involved with ..."</p>
<p>"That's fair. Like Gerard Keay. Or any books that mention the Leitner Library—and if we can look more into Jurgen Leitner and uncover anything about him, maybe he should get his own page too ..."</p>
<p>"Do we ... have any Leitners? In Artifact Storage?"</p>
<p>Sasha frowned. "Why are you asking?"</p>
<p>"I—I don't want to read them," Martin said. "I just—think maybe it ... I don't know. We found that one had been sold online. I was thinking, maybe, we could ... use one as bait? Say we're thinking of selling it, if anyone wants to meet over coffee for it ... just to get more information about them, you know? Maybe find someone willing to talk about Leitners and what they are and why people might ... want them?"</p>
<p>“Hm. It … might be worth looking into. But we can’t remove any of those books from Storage, not actually. It’s too dangerous. But finding people who would be the type to buy one … maybe. We can look into it.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>Sasha turned the recorder on and continued recording. "We did what little follow-up we could do about this case. The Lukas family is old, wealthy, and one of the leading donors of the Institute. All attempts to interview any member of the Lukas family have been firmly rebuffed. Any inquiry about a family crypt or graveyard has been ignored. Any attempt to locate the Moorland House to retrace Ms. Herne's steps have failed, and just beginning with the crash site and walking until someone found a graveyard full of empty graves doesn't seem like an efficient way to handle this." She sighed.<p>"Otherwise, we looked into what else there was, concerning this statement. Evan Lukas did indeed pass away from heart failure on March the 22nd, 2015, and his body was taken by his family for burial. At roughly one in the morning on the 31st of March, Ms. Herne was involved in a collision with one Michael Getty. She had apparently run out into the road in front of Mr. Getty’s car near Wormshill in the Kent Downs. She was quickly taken to a hospital and treated for concussion and dehydration. Her car was found abandoned in a field five miles away.</p>
<p>"As for the piece of masonry Ms. Herne was holding when she was hit ... It appears to be a lump of carved granite with an engraved cross design. The size and style match what would conceivably be found atop a headstone, though we have been unable to trace its origin. Still attached to it is a small fragment of what we can assume would have been the marker itself. The only text that can be made out simply reads ‘forgotten.’ I’ve arranged for it to be transferred to the Institute’s Artifact Storage.</p>
<p>“End recording.”</p>
<p>
  <em>Click.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Knocking</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The warm, stale—putrid—air hit him like he'd stepped into a wall, like he'd stepped into an oven full of rotting meat, climbing through the window. Martin frowned, swallowing a gag. He held his torch out, firm and metal and cool in his hand, and looked around. Listened.</p>
<p>No cobwebs. Or, at least, not the kind made by spiders which cocooned grown men and left them inside the web to wither. (He pushed aside the thought, fleetingly, of Carlos Vittery, caught in the web, alive and struggling and helpless, a known recluse and therefore knowing there would be no one to come to the rescue, no way he could escape the white woven around him—)</p>
<p>A rustling brushed through the air.</p>
<p>Martin froze. Turned toward the sound, peering into the dark. He clutched his torch. The light caught on the edges of things, of shelves and debris, weaker than it should be—the torch flickered pale, ghostly through the thick air. A figure stood in the corner, facing the wall, staring into it. It—she—wore a gray overcoat, dirty and torn. Her hair twisted long and black and filthy. Her legs, visible under her overcoat, were speckled with holes. In her right hand, she held a stained, green handkerchief. She raised it to her mouth—arm jerking, like a string abruptly pulled taut.</p>
<p>She hacked into it. Something that looked like a cough, as it wracked through her chest, but sounded like the slick tearing of meat, of flesh breaking and pulling and coming loose beneath teeth. Something thin and writhing and silver fell from the fabric.</p>
<p>Martin screamed.</p>
<p>Her head snapped to look at him—through him, like her eyes bore holes into him just as her skin already held. Her eyes, empty and deflated and hollow, stared at where she knew he was, though. She smiled—or grimaced, or snarled, or sneered. She bared her teeth—black and chipped and falling from her gums, worms writhing through her skin, her lips, moving so steadily through her that her skin bulged and warped, rippling like the surface of a bog, water sliding beneath algae.</p>
<p>Martin backed away, reaching for his phone, stepping back towards the stairs. He fumbled with the camera—glanced back at the stairs, to be sure where they were—a worm leaped at him, from her—<em>its</em>—skin, mouth hungry and searching—</p>
<p>He scrambled onto the stairs, falling backwards. His phone skittered away across the floor.</p>
<p>Martin clambered up the stairs. And ran.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>Martin jittered in his seat, and tried very hard to think of anything other than the creeping itch of bugs—of worms—of rotting, eating, sweltering things crawling on him, burrowing into his skin—their black heads like beads on silver bodies, squirming as they sought any sort of weakness in his flesh, anything that would give beneath their mouths, anything that they could bore into—<p>He took a shuddering breath and looked over himself again. Scratched his arms, his ribs. Dug his nails into his hair and scraped his scalp until skin collected under his nails, thick and white and chalky, dead flesh rotting—stinking as it decayed, as it—</p>
<p>He swallowed. Took a slower breath, this time, and methodically checked himself, his clothes, his shoes—everywhere—for anything remotely resembling the worms he had seen, writhing in the flesh of a woman—a thing that might once have been a woman—a woman with more holes than skin, with black teeth and no eyes and—</p>
<p>He didn't find any worms. He still itched, still felt <em>unclean,</em> like he had moved through a pool of oil and mud and lard, like it had become a second layer of skin, coating him—but he itched, and itched, and all that came up was dry skin, leaving nothing but pale red scratches in his skin. As the time passed, as he moved further away from the worm-infested thing that stood beneath Boothby road, he relaxed. Slowly, as the distance stretched and stretched between himself and the horror he had seen.</p>
<p>He stumbled off at his station, nearly tired enough to miss it, exhausted now that his adrenaline had died and his paranoia assuaged by his repeated checks for worms. He still scratched the back of his head—had a thought of lice, of little brown bugs burrowing their way into his scalp, drinking and drinking blood until they've had their fill, of the hundreds of eggs that can be laid in just a few days—had a thought of ticks, of how they burrow, deeper and deeper into flesh, until they can't be picked out, until they have to be cut out, or else risk their heads remaining inside, still drinking, still feeding, even without a body to support—</p>
<p>He shuddered. His hands shook as he unlocked his apartment door—locked it behind himself—and fell onto his bed, too tired to worry beyond getting enough sleep. He would tell Sasha what he'd found tomorrow—he would worry about getting a new phone (if he could—that he <em>needed</em> one, it being practically a necessity for any sort of job—) tomorrow.</p>
<p>Tim would tell him to mark it down under expenses. Martin smiled, just a little, at that. But Tim had been called to speak to Elias before, to justify his own expenses—which, Martin thought, weren't necessarily justifiable—and, while Tim had managed, Martin's stomach rolled at the invitation that would be, to be seen, to be investigated—Sasha might not care about his actual qualifications, but Elias might, and Martin didn't think Sasha could keep him from being fired if Elias was the one ordering it.</p>
<p>But the thought, at least, of Tim, of how he'd joke about it, call it an 'occupational hazard,' and claim they all should get hazard pay—it made Martin smile, at least. He kicked off his shoes—tried not to think of the black ooze he'd scraped from the bottom, how the worm had popped beneath his boot. He fell asleep, exhausted.</p>
<p>He didn't dream.</p>
<p>Something woke him. He jolted from sleep, halfway to standing before he looked around his bedroom.</p>
<p>Nighttime kept his room shielded in the dark—had he slept all day? Had he missed work, and not even called in? Or was it the same night?—and Martin, for a moment, sat in confusion. What had woken him?</p>
<p>A knocking came from his front door. He tried flicking on his overhead light. Nothing. He tried his bedside lamp.</p>
<p>Nothing.</p>
<p>Looking around, it seemed his clock had stopped, as well, its screen dark. He frowned. The knocking came again. Likely a neighbor, he supposed, checking in to see if his electricity had also gone out—or asking for a spare flashlight, or candle, in the face of the unexpected blackout.</p>
<p>He was standing in front of the door by the time last night—yesterday? Or just a few hours ago?—struck him. He froze. His breath caught in his throat.</p>
<p>The knocking persisted.</p>
<p>But what if it was ... her? It? Martin couldn't risk it, could he? And wouldn't one of his neighbors have said something by now, or presumed he wasn't home? Why were they still <em>knocking?</em></p>
<p>He stood there, as though waiting, but for what? He chewed his lip. Started to itch, again, like something might be moving <em>beneath</em> his skin. A flash of panic burned through him. What if he had missed a worm? What if one—or more, oh, G-d, how many might there be?—had crawled beneath, latching into his flesh—</p>
<p>A silver worm, with a shiny black head, coiled its way under his door.</p>
<p>Martin stamped his foot. Over and over again, until his heel throbbed and his weight shifted poorly on his ankle, and he grabbed every fabric he could find—every towel, every blanket, every <em>sock</em>—and crammed every crevice full.</p>
<p>He panted, panic washing over him in waves timed with the knocking—the knocking sounding like a bell toll, like a timer, like a reminder of his impending demise, lost to a walking carcass rotting, full of worms, full of the promise that he, too, would be consumed—would be loved, would be laid to rest as a home—Martin shook his head. Took a deep breath that shook and caught and rattled in his chest, but a deep breath nonetheless.</p>
<p>He itched, still. Like a layer of grime encased him, had sunken into him, had taken root somewhere beneath his flesh, and he’d now never be able to wash it out, would never know anything other than filth, than decay, as it ate through his body beneath his skin, hid from him until it swelled, like a bloating corpse in the sun, and split—split <em>him</em>—along the seams.</p>
<p>But the cracks were filled, he thought. He sat in the center of his apartment, just in case. Watched the door, just in case. Didn’t rush to the bathroom to shower.<br/>Just in case.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>The knocking punctuated the song, like the percussion to the music, the beat of the waves against rocks to accompany the rush of the water moving, of the tides. Martin's eyes fluttered shut.<p>Jolted open halfway through a vision of Jane gnawing her way through the door like a host of termites, emerging through the wood like a moth from a cocoon, like something beautiful being born.</p>
<p>He took a deep breath and choked on the thickness of the air, the must that hung around him, the ever-present reminder that, even as the door stood silent, even with the scratching of the worms dulled to a hum, she still stood outside the door, waiting for him. Waiting for him to give up, to give in—to begin to sing the same song. He swallowed. Shook his head.</p>
<p>Martin walked to the kitchen—kitchenette—for a distraction, for—a modicum of normalcy. He stared at the cans, set aside for rationing, and his stomach dropped. Half a can of leftover peaches for ... dinner, he guessed.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>Jon looked up from his work. The clock-face informed him the time was seventeen minutes after ten. Tim had gone to the police station, to cajole some more information out of them regarding statement #0113005, almost an hour ago—which explained, in part, the quiet, except … He glanced to Martin’s desk.<p>The Vittery statement and relevant notes sat in their file, undisturbed, on his desk. His chair stood, still pushed in under the desk. A clean, empty mug sat atop it. Pens laid in neat rows still.</p>
<p>Jon frowned. “Sasha?” he called, walking to her office. He knocked, gently, before opening the door.</p>
<p>She looked up at him, sitting on the floor, stooped over open files and notes spread out in a circle around her, pieces of her hair falling in front of her eyes, her glasses. The thick black frames glinted in the lamplight. She smiled, a little sheepish. “Get sent in here to drag me from my work?”</p>
<p>“Not this time.” Jon knelt at the edge of the circle, skimming over the files. “You’re organizing them by location and time?”</p>
<p>“Sort of. That last statement, with the priest, got me thinking about places, you know? His story wasn’t focused on Hilltop Road, but it intersected with a story <em>only</em> about the house there, and … I’m thinking there’s going to be more from there.” She shrugged. “Call it a feeling. So if I start organizing them physically in a sort of … time-line by location, it’ll be easier to fit the pieces in later.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “I’ll connect the entries for each tape that mention the same area—and similarly for the same people, and dates, too, if it works out that it might be important.” She smiled, eyes bright. “Maybe if we can piece enough together, through our follow-up research and given enough statements, we can start compiling entries for the places and people themselves, with link connecting them to relevant statements, so that—you know, if there’s a researcher that decides to look into a specific person, or place, or who comes across something like that in a secondary source, they can cross-reference which statements have mentioned it.”</p>
<p>“It’ll make it easier for us, too, if a name or description keeps showing up.”</p>
<p>“Exactly.” Sasha laughed. “It just looks a little less like data organization and more like a …”</p>
<p>“Conspiracy bulletin board spread across the floor?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. So far, I’m thinking one entry per statement, connected to other statements given by the same person, if that ever occurs; one entry per person mentioned in multiple statements—like Gerard Keay, from #0132806 and #0121102? And maybe even people who seem coincidental at this point, like Michael Crew was mentioned in #0132806 as well, and #9991006—you know, just in case. And then an entry per place that something has happened, with priority given to places which are mentioned multiple times, like the house on Hilltop Road.” She hesitated. “I think that people like Robert Smirke and, you know, Jurgen Leitner, should also have entries, even though they have yet to actually appear in any statement.”</p>
<p>Jon grimaced, but he nodded. “That sounds … appropriate.”</p>
<p>“Maybe we could also keep a running list of books from the Leitner library, and ones which might be, so that any researcher—especially the practical researchers in Artifact Storage—can get a … sufficient warning about what they might be dealing with …” Sasha trailed off. “But you didn’t come in here to talk about organization possibilities. You’ve got your own work you’ve been doing. What’s up?”</p>
<p>“Oh. Uh. Nothing, really, I just … Have you heard from Martin? Recently? He hasn’t come in yet—” Jon stopped. Shrugged. “It’s just … unexpected.”</p>
<p>“He texted me. He’s out with a stomach bug. He’ll probably be back soon.” Sasha grinned. “Why?”</p>
<p>“Oh. No—no reason. I was just. You know, wanting to check in. He’s just not usually late.” He fidgeted under Sasha’s gaze. “Do you want tea? I could … I could make tea.”</p>
<p>She laughed, shaking her head. “If you’re making tea anyway,” she said, “I certainly won’t say no.”</p>
<p>“Good.” Jon stood. He leaned over the files to kiss Sasha’s hair. “I’ll be back. Don’t get too lost in your red threads without me.”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t dream of it.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>Jon stood in the break-room while the water boiled. He stared through the doorway to the empty Archives, where the dim lights—where only the lamp on his desk—cast long shadows across the high-reaching walls. He frowned. For a basement, the ceiling stretched high, and light never quite reached the corners of the room. Lit so meagerly, darkness obscured the far wall, looking like nothing stood there at all, like the office stretched so far into the distance that to even imply that it might have an end seemed preposterous—<p>Jon shook his head.</p>
<p>He studied the mugs set on the counter. Sasha's 'Number One Boss' mug: plain white, with black text, large and obnoxious, a gift from Tim. His own—a birthday gift from Martin—a pale green mug with an orange tabby sprawled across it and no text. Jon smiled as he reached for the tea bags.</p>
<p>The back of his neck prickled. He looked up to the doorway, and once again peered into the darkness of an empty room.</p>
<p>The tea kettle whistled. Jon shook his head and poured the water over the tea bags.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>Tim strolled into the Archives a little after noon, a few plastic bags with carry-out on hand. "Hello, sweet loves of mine," he called. Jon poked his head out of Sasha's office with a fond, exasperated smile.<p>"In here, Tim," he replied.</p>
<p>"I've brought food. Mostly appetizers to share from—" Tim sauntered over and nudged the door open.</p>
<p>Files littered the floor, laid out in line, each with variously-colored tabs stuck to them. Some only had one tab, while others had two or three—one had five, with several extra notes written in both Sasha's and Jon's hands. Two mugs half-full of forgotten tea sat on Sasha's desk.</p>
<p>Tim shook his head. "All right, you two, break-time," he said. "C'mon, we'll eat at the table. All your conspiracy-board notes will still be here when we get back."</p>
<p>Sasha looked up from the statement in her hands, smiling. "Seems like we get a mandatory break-time anyway," she said, leaning her shoulder into Jon.</p>
<p>"Anyway?" Tim parroted back with a raised eyebrow.</p>
<p>"Oh, it's just that Martin isn't in today. Stomach bug, he said. He might be out for the next few days, or it might just be one of those 24-hour things?” Sasha shrugged. “Hopefully he comes back soon.” She grinned and looked pointedly to Jon. “<em>Someone</em> commented on his absence.”</p>
<p>“I—” Jon’s face heated, turning to hide it in Sasha’s hair. “I was simply surprised that he wasn’t already in, is all.”</p>
<p>“Oh, of course, only out of concern for his work ethic, hm?” she teased.</p>
<p>“I’m sure,” Tim said with a grin to rival Sasha’s. “Certainly not for his well-being. That would be <em>unprofessional.</em>”</p>
<p>“And we are all about being professional here.”</p>
<p>“Yes, yes.” Jon shook his head. “Fine. Perhaps—<em>perhaps,</em>” he stressed, “I was inquiring out of more than a … professional curiosity.”</p>
<p>“He admits it!”</p>
<p>“<em>But</em> I hardly see it as extraordinary that I would notice a break in a pattern. It’s not like I—”</p>
<p>“Pay attention to when and where Martin usually is when he’s at the office?”</p>
<p>Jon frowned—well, pouted, really. Tim chuckled. “All right, all right, how about we move to the break-room before we keep teasing, yeah? While the food’s still warm.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Burrowing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A Steady Refrain [Day 3]</p>
<p>I do not see the wriggling worms<br/>
slither through from beneath the door.<br/>
The fabric—thin and flimsy though it feels—<br/>
hold them off at bay.</p>
<p>She knocks or sings, and the rhythm comes only for me;<br/>
the verses change with the day,<br/>
but the steady refrain remains.<br/>
<em>Come, be loved, be not alone. All this awaits, and all the more.</em></p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div><p>The Knocking Always Comes Around [Day 5]</p>
<p>The knocking always comes around<br/>
as my heartbeat slows, my eyelids close<br/>
only for my nerves to set racing at the sound.<br/>
The knocking always comes around.</p>
<p>The itch starts small, creeping, a termite's mound.<br/>
It circles my hands, my waist—my throat—<br/>
and tightens until my core it's found.<br/>
The knocking always comes around.</p>
<p>It sits and she waits, too still to hound—<br/>
no hunt as I in turn watch the door and doze<br/>
and see the worms writhe within her gown.<br/>
The knocking always comes around.</p>
<p>They sing a song sweet enough to astound,<br/>
beautiful, of mouths which would love me through all lows.<br/>
Though I refuse their promises which abound,<br/>
the knocking always comes around.</p>
<p>To gentle sleep I lay me down<br/>
and pray I wake from this repose.<br/>
I beg to dream not spellbound<br/>
but the knocking always comes around.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div><p>the empty [Day 7]</p>
<p>A wish for silence tastes of hopeless prayer;<br/>
all the psalms I once remembered, now empty in the air.<br/>
The knocking ever-comes, an always approaching toll—<br/>
it seeps within me and chills my very soul.</p>
<p>I dare not open a window, yet in a fog still drifts<br/>
of salt and distance and absent songs, from this nightmare me it lifts.<br/>
It does not feel of holy, of sanctuary, of safe,<br/>
yet, my apartment an isle of misery, away from here is not unwelcome bait.</p>
<p>My door still stands as false-iron defense;<br/>
its hinges rattle with the knocks, yet there my only chance.<br/>
My life feels as a fever, my room feels as a dream.<br/>
I hope I hold a pen in hand, though none is as it seems.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div><p>I Dream a Day of Rescue [Day 9]</p>
<p>I dream a day of rescue, though the details always change.<br/>
You, or her, or him—someone notices and comes to save me<br/>
from this din.</p>
<p>I dream a day with dawns, with once-more rising suns,<br/>
with light and smiles and silences which the knocking<br/>
never overruns.</p>
<p>I dream a day of peace, of sleepfulness, of rest,<br/>
of once more having blankets not into cracks<br/>
under doors tightly pressed.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div><p>Untitled [Day 11]</p>
<p>the beat on the door drones the static of whited-out noise and<br/>
i lose myself to the dark of it. she sings and hums;<br/>
i hear her feet outside dance to it. she, once-alone, no longer<br/>
lonely; she, worm-charmer, became flesh-garden<br/>
and invites i do the same.</p>
<p>oh, to be no longer alone—oh, to be consumed and loved—<br/>
to become like eaten-wood, termites through, soft and<br/>
smelling of the forest, ground wet with morning dew.</p>
<p>cheeks—skin—never dry, but no tears; instead like moss, like<br/>
mushroom, both bed and creature tended.</p>
<p>oh, only to grow.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div><p>[Day 13]</p>
<p>it comes it comes it knocks. slow &amp; steady &amp; beating beating<br/>
like the strike-striking of clocks—what has you thinking of<br/>
strikes? of harm, of hits—i’ve been having dreams.</p>
<p>bad dreams.</p>
<p>i wake and tremble for i know not if i still sleep—she not always<br/>
there, and yet the song—the song remains. of worms of silk<br/>
of silver-spun tales—no babe needed in exchange<br/>
to spin the straw precious, just skin skin skin.</p>
<p>devour me, it wants, it wails, craving home and hospice. give me<br/>
all i want and all i need and let me feed, feed—<br/>
and you’ll be loved, it sings. it stings.</p>
<p>the thick of loneliness curls burden on my throat.<br/>
after all, who comes for, cares for, craves for me<br/>
other than the worms?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Colony</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The door to Sasha's office slammed open. She startled, standing almost in response, her hand reaching for the tape recorder—"Martin?" she asked, incredulous. "You look—you look—what happened? Are you—"</p>
<p>He looked around, almost wildly, like he needed to find something—or, maybe, not find something, as the case seemed to be, because he relaxed shortly after seeing ... nothing, she supposed.</p>
<p>“I—” Only then did he seem to remember his state, and the state of his entrance, and he flushed, face bright. "Sorry," he said. "I—I just—I need to make a statement."</p>
<p>Sasha frowned. "Okay ... what happened?"</p>
<p>"I ... I would rather not repeat myself. Not ..." He winced. "I'd rather not relive it too many times, really, so could you ... ready your tape or whatever first. Please?"</p>
<p>Sasha paused, but she nodded. She grabbed a fresh tape and replaced the statement #0022010 with it. She looked to Martin and waited a moment. He nodded, jaw set, determination taking over the anxiety—panic?—she had just seen on his face. "Statement of Martin Blackwood, regarding ...?"</p>
<p>"An infestation. A knocking. A—a <em>colony</em> that waited for me outside my own door for two weeks."</p>
<p>Sasha frowned. "Statement recorded March 12, 2016. Recorded directly from subject. Statement begins."</p>
<p>"… It started when I went to investigate the Vittery case. I ... okay, so I went to investigate the building, right? I ... I got it, sort of, but ... well, landlords aren't the most helpful when you're a tenant, to say nothing of how they are when you're a paranormal researcher digging into a murder that happened on their property—anyway. I didn’t … find anything.</p>
<p>“But I … okay, I get it, I’m not the best researcher you have, and—even if I’m better with people than you and Jon, I’m still not as good as Tim, but … well … you chose <em>me</em> to investigate this, and I … I saw Jon’s face. When spiders were mentioned? So I …” Martin sighed. “I didn’t want Jon to have to investigate this, if I couldn’t … find everything.</p>
<p>“I went to the basement. I shouldn’t have, I knew that, and I—but I went. I mean. It’s kind of our job, right? Go to all the places you know the awful things are supposed to be, even though <em>every</em> horror movie tells you exactly why you should <em>never</em> go where the awful things are going to be.</p>
<p>“At first, I thought it was fine, actually." He laughed, self-deprecatingly and sharp. Bitter. "I actually thought it was okay! There weren’t any spiders like I was expecting, no webs or anything, or at least not beyond the couple of cobwebs, but nothing much, nothing <em>important,</em> you know? So I figured. Job done. So long as it didn’t land me in prison, at least, but I—</p>
<p>"Christ, I looked around and my torch caught on—I can’t call it a woman. It wasn’t—it wasn’t a <em>person.</em> It—writhed, like its skin didn’t sit on muscle, but instead on a—a bed of <em>worms,</em> silver and wriggling and—and even though they were worms, they had these <em>mouths,</em> all—gaping and gasping and filled with <em>teeth</em>—” He grimaced. “I screamed. It heard me, of course, and I—I scrambled away—then I—</p>
<p>“I tried to get my phone. Not even—not even for a <em>light</em> or to <em>call</em> anyone, I just wanted to get a picture! To—for proof, or something, because—you and Jon, you both … you tear these statements apart. You less than him, but only—only sometimes, even when—you take the categorization so <em>seriously,</em> but then you—</p>
<p>“I wanted to get you proof. Which. I couldn’t. I, uh. Dropped my phone. A worm <em>lunged</em> at me, and I dropped it. Scrambled up the stairs and I didn’t stop to pick it up.</p>
<p>“The door was unlocked. I, uh. Doubt I’d be here if it weren’t.</p>
<p>“I went home. I checked myself all over—multiple times—to see if any worms got on me. I didn’t find any. By the time I reached my flat, I … I actually thought it was over. That I’d made it out. I fell asleep before I could even bring myself to email you or anything.</p>
<p>“Which was stupid of me. When I woke up, the electric was out.</p>
<p>“That’s when I heard it. The knocking. I—I thought it was a neighbor, or someone, coming to check to see if my power had gone out too, or to borrow a flashlight or candles or something, so I went out to the door. But …</p>
<p>“I don’t have one of those peepholes, so I couldn’t see what was out there, and … I mean, I thought, ‘What if it’s her? What if it’s that <em>thing</em> from the basement?’ So I took a step back, and I saw something on the floor, crawling out from underneath the door. It was a small, silver-looking worm.</p>
<p>“I … my memory went a little hazy here. I remember stamping and stamping, and then filling every crevice I could think of with—anything, really. Towels, socks, extra blankets—anything to keep the worms out.</p>
<p>“This went on for <em>thirteen days.</em></p>
<p>“She kept knocking. Not consistently, not the entire time, but she kept knocking and stopping and starting again, and—I have to admit, I … didn’t sleep well during those two weeks. I had plenty of food, at least, and my water was working just fine … I did have to start rationing my food.” He grimaced. “If I ever see another can of peaches …” He shook his head. “But the boredom was some of the worst of it.</p>
<p>“I couldn’t do anything but sit there, listening to the knocking, to the <em>song,</em> and I—I couldn’t let my guard down. Anytime I did, I’d start to feel something was crawling… up my legs and I’d have to sit up and check.” He sighed. “I managed to distract myself, sometimes, writing—ah, writing poetry, but …</p>
<p>“Finally, I woke up this morning and she was gone. I don’t know exactly how I knew. I—I think she brought that musty smell with her, and this morning I—I couldn’t smell it. And there was no knocking. I mean, it still took me about four hours of checking and double-checking and listening at the letterbox before I got the nerve to actually open the door, but when I did … there was no-one there. And I ran … all the way here.”</p>
<p>Silence crackled between them, the tape recorder whirring, like it was almost disappointed there were no words to consume at the moment. Sasha cleared her throat.</p>
<p>"Statement ends," she said, and turned the recorder off. "And you're ... sure, about all this?"</p>
<p>"Yes! I wouldn't—do you think that I would—"</p>
<p>"No, no, I just ... just. Checking." Her lips thinned, pressing together. "Well, in that case. There's a cot, in the storage room down the hall. I can't say that it's five-star accommodations or anything, but the room was designed to be humidity-controlled. It isn't, anymore, but it is sealed. You ... you'll be safe there, if you want to ..."</p>
<p>Martin blinked. "Oh. Uh. Yeah, that'd be ... that'd be great. And you just ... you believe me, then?"</p>
<p>"I wouldn't be much of a paranormal researcher if I disregarded your statement, now would I?" Sasha gave him a wry smile. He relaxed, just a little, and her smile dropped, turned sad. "I'm sorry you had to go through that. I hope staying in the Archives ... helps, somehow, at least until you find a new apartment—and if you need help moving anything out—well. We’re here for you, okay?” She thought a moment. “Also, I’m going to write off your getting a new phone under the Archive’s expenses.”</p>
<p>“… Thank you.”</p>
<p>“Of course, Martin. Anytime. Anything that we can do to help. I mean it.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Late Nights</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Martin rubbed his face, a cup of tea in hand. "Sasha?" he called, knocking on her office door.</p>
<p>"Come in."</p>
<p>He opened the door. "Sasha, it's after nine, why aren't you heading home yet?"</p>
<p>"Tim and Jon are still out."</p>
<p>"Uh, no, Tim is working on getting Jon to also go home." He pulled out his phone—new and still unfamiliar in his hand—and checked his texts. "He got him home already, actually. He's wondering where you are, and why you aren't picking up your phone."</p>
<p>"I'm busy."</p>
<p>"Your work will still be here in the morning—and I <em>know</em> how early you've been coming in, too. Christ, Sasha, is this how you've been working—how long have you been going like this?"</p>
<p>She shrugged. "I've got work to do."</p>
<p>"You still have to take breaks. Is this why the cot was set up? Have you—" He sighed. "That's not good for you, come on. You need your sleep, and I hardly imagine that the train home is pleasant when you're dead on your feet."</p>
<p>"I'm fine."</p>
<p>She still hadn't looked up from the files on her desk.</p>
<p>"I really don't think so. You need to rest."</p>
<p>No response.</p>
<p>Martin sighed again. "All right, fine. I'm making tea. You want a cup?"</p>
<p>"You already have tea."</p>
<p>"Yeah, but, if you're going to be up, might as well make myself useful."</p>
<p>She looked up. "You don't have to—"</p>
<p>"I'll keep you company until you head out, yeah?" He waved her protests off with a tired hand. "It's not a bother, I'm up anyway."</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>"You don't need to work late, just because you're staying here," Sasha said. "Thank you for the tea. But, really, Martin—"<p>"So you can stay in the office late and work until the cows come home, but the minute I'm sitting in your office after-hours, then you're concerned about overtime?"</p>
<p>She smiled, a little sheepish. "All right, I guess that's fair. Still, I don't want you to feel like you've got to do anything extra, that you wouldn't be doing if you weren't staying here."</p>
<p>Martin shrugged. "Making tea and keeping you company isn't some great hardship, you know. It'd be better if you weren't working, too, and I'm sure I'm not as helpful for research organization or talking about the statements as Jon or Tim are, but ..."</p>
<p>"Well, it's not too difficult to be more helpful than Tim when it comes to sitting in my office. He does good work—so long as he's not in the same room as me." She grinned. Shook her head. "I'm mostly kidding, but he'd have taken the files off my desk by now or something."</p>
<p>"Is that how to get you to stop working?"</p>
<p>"You wouldn't dare, Mr. Blackwood."</p>
<p>"I don't know. It is after hours. Are you sure I wouldn't, Ms. James?"</p>
<p>"What if you spilled the tea by mistake? Wouldn't want it to go to waste."</p>
<p>"Occupational hazard, when you need to take breaks more frequently." He paused. Frowned. "Is ... is there anything going on? At home, or otherwise? You ... why aren't you wanting to go home?"</p>
<p>"I ..." Sasha sighed. "I've just got so much work to do. Between trying to organize the Archives, plus setting up the digital database from scratch, on top of the whole Prentiss thing ... It's not a home issue or anything—thank you, though, for your concern—well, okay, I don't know. I think I'm a little more worried than I'd usually be about, ah, work following me home, but ... I don't know, I think Jon worries about the same thing. Not that it's the only reason we work late, it's just ... definitely part of it."</p>
<p>He nodded. "Yeah, the worms getting to ... I get it. Not a pleasant thought."</p>
<p>"Exactly." She sighed again. "What are you going to do? Once this is—once this is all over, are you going back, or ...?"</p>
<p>"I ... I don't know. I can't—I don't know if I'll be able to sleep there, so ... but it depends on how long all this takes, and, well, lease stuff.” Martin fiddled with his mug. "I don't know. It'd be nice to say I'll just move, but it's not always feasible, you know?"</p>
<p>"Yeah."</p>
<p>"I mean, it's not like I live anywhere awful, you know. I can afford it, live by myself, it's not—it's not bad, it's just ... well, now it kind of is bad, but not because of the place. It's just ... what happened there. I don't—I don't want to get stuck there again. It ..." He set his tea down and rubbed at his eyes. "Sorry, I didn't mean—"</p>
<p>"No, no, no need to apologize. I—well, I don't exactly get it, but I'll listen. I can sympathize. What you went through ... it was bad. You don't have to apologize for needing time to deal with it." She bit her lip. “Does … does staying here help? I mean, you’re not trapped by Prentiss with her standing outside your door, but you also … don’t leave much.”</p>
<p>He shrugged. “It’s better than it could be, you know? It’s better than being back in my apartment. If the worms had gotten in—” He shook his head. “But … yeah, you guys get to leave in the evenings—even if you don’t always do that—” He gave her a look and got a small smile in turn. “But I … don’t. I mean, it’s safe, you know, in the storage room, so …”</p>
<p>“But it’s just as much a reminder, isn’t it?” Sasha looked at her work for a moment, before closing the files and stacking her books. "Come on," she said.</p>
<p>"What?"</p>
<p>"We're going out. You know. On an adventure." She smiled. "I'm sure it wouldn't be too hard to find some place open right now. We could get, I don't know, ice cream or something. And if we can't find a parlor open, we'll just buy a tub and plastic spoons from a cornerstore and sit in the park with it."</p>
<p>"It's the middle of March—"</p>
<p>"I've got extra blankets. I was keeping them when ... well, when I was using the storage room, and I don't think you're using all of them, so. Come on, it'll be fun. To get out for a bit. You were just telling me I shouldn't be working so late. This'll keep me away from my notes for a bit, don't you think?"</p>
<p>Martin frowned. "But—"</p>
<p>"There really isn't much reason not to go, you know? Ice cream, blankets in the park, getting away from work, getting out of the Archives—all good things." She stood and grabbed her jacket. "Come on. I'll walk you back here after, no worries."</p>
<p>"Won't that be a little late?"</p>
<p>She shrugged. "It probably won't be the latest I've gone home, and, even if I do miss the last train, it isn't that bad of a walk—"</p>
<p>"If you miss the last train, you're not walking home alone."</p>
<p>"Oh, I'm not, am I?" She grinned. "What will I be doing instead? There's only one cot."</p>
<p>He flushed. “We’ll just … be back in time for you to still catch the train.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>"What flavor of ice cream?"<p>"Whatever you want is fine," he said.</p>
<p>Sasha shook her head. "Come on, what's your favorite? You got Neapolitan at your birthday. Would you want to get a tub of that?"</p>
<p>"Uh, I mean, if you like it—but you remember—"</p>
<p>She waved him off. "What's not to like about Neapolitan? All the classics in one." She peered through the glass doors of the convenience store's frozen section. "This place would have things like plastic spoons we can get, right? They probably sell those somewhere here."</p>
<p>"Maybe? I guess?"</p>
<p>Sasha opened a door and pulled out a tub of Neapolitan ice cream. "Time to go find some spoons, then," she said. "I mean, I guess we could always just ask the people working at the ready-made food section if we could have some spoons." She nodded over to them. "But maybe we should look for our own spoons first."</p>
<p>Martin nodded. "Sounds ... sounds good. Are you sure you're okay with—"</p>
<p>"If you're about to ask if I'm okay with the ice cream choice, then don't bother. I'm a fan of pretty much any ice cream anyway, so."</p>
<p>"Yeah, but you got a sorbet when we went out—"</p>
<p>"They had raspberry. But I wouldn't trust a sorbet from a convenience store even if they had it here." She smiled. "So, really, don't worry about it. Let's go get spoons."</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>Sasha looked at her watch with a slight frown. “It really is an all right night for a walk,” she insisted. “I could even just take a cab, it’s not a big deal—”<p>“Sasha—” Martin rubbed his face. “Come on, just … you’ve stayed the night in the Archives before, you can stay again … safer than trying to head out. Been seeing worms around the Institute, you know that.” He yawned. “Least I can let you do is take the cot.”</p>
<p>“The cot’s yours.”</p>
<p>“No, c’mon, you paid for the ice cream, really, it’s—”</p>
<p>“It’s not—I didn’t do it so I could kick you out of bed—”</p>
<p>“You’re not walking home alone—”</p>
<p>“I can just sleep in my office; the couch is plenty comfortable—”</p>
<p>Martin rubbed his eyes again. "C'mon," he said, and yawned. "It's late. Just—the cot's big enough, just—"</p>
<p>"... are you sure?"</p>
<p>"Yeah, it's fine, I just—you shouldn't sleep on the couch, it'll mess up your neck, or your back, and the floor would be worse—the cot used to be yours anyway, too, so ... yeah. So you can actually get some sleep and not have to walk home alone."</p>
<p>She smiled, soft and small. "Thank you, Martin."</p>
<p>"It's not—it's not a big deal, just, uh. Make sure you text Tim and Jon where you are, yeah? Wouldn't want them worrying because you're not back yet or anything."</p>
<p>She nodded. Yawned as well, the hour only now hitting her—well, the hour, alongside her early morning (which was becoming routine) and previously late nights— <em>Okay,</em> she admitted, <em>maybe I am burning the candle at both ends a little too much.</em></p>
<p>Sasha put the leftover ice cream in the break-room freezer while Martin went on ahead to the storage room. He toed his shoes off, kept his socks, and fussed with the blankets, only now realizing what he'd done, what he was going to do—Sasha came in not too long after him, sleepily stepping out of her shoes and letting her jacket fall on a nearby chair.<br/>She wore a tank beneath her button-up blouse—she took only marginally more care folding the blouse up before setting it on the chair. She paused. "Uh, I'm—I've got an underwire on, do you—would you mind if I—" Her face grew warm. "Sorry, I really could just sleep—"</p>
<p>"Hey, uh, no, no worries. I mean. There's—the bathroom, I'm gonna—I've got—my binder, so I—it's not a big deal ... right?"</p>
<p>She smiled. "Right. Yeah. No big deal at all. You, uh, have a preference which side of the cot you're on?"</p>
<p>"Oh. Um, closer to the wall, if that's—unless you—"</p>
<p>"No, no problem there, I, uh. Prefer to not be. Stuck. Anyway. Yeah, works for me." Sasha smiled. "So ... we're all good, then?"</p>
<p>"Uh. Yeah. Yeah. I'm just gonna—" Martin shuffled to the door. "—bathroom, you know?"</p>
<p>"Yeah, yeah."</p>
<p>He pulled the door around behind him as he left the storage room. Sasha shifted her bra around until she could take it off while leaving her shirt on, and sat on the edge of the bed. She chewed her lip, exhaustion not quite overcoming her anxiety at the prospect of— <em>It's not like this is the first time you've ever shared a bed with someone,</em> she chastised herself … <em>but it is the first time with Martin.</em></p>
<p>Which didn't necessarily mean anything, she told herself. Just because they were sharing the cot, it didn't mean anything, other than that they were friends, and Martin didn't want her walking home alone. He was being nice, and hospitable, and it was very sweet of him, and didn't mean anything outside of that.</p>
<p>At least, not necessarily.</p>
<p>Sasha ran a hand through her hair with a sigh—that turned into a yawn. She texted Jon and Tim: <em>staying at the Archives tonight with Martin, sleeping here. See you in the morning. Love you.</em></p>
<p><em>Sleep well,</em> Jon answered. <em>Love you too.</em></p>
<p>Tim replied with a series of emojis and <em>don’t do anything I wouldn’t. Love you &amp; have fun.</em> She rolled her eyes.</p>
<p>"Uh, do you need to use the bathroom?" Martin asked as he came back into the storage room. "I mean, it's right down the hall—but you knew that, I just ..." He shook his head. "Sorry."</p>
<p>“It’s all right.” She yawned again. “You don’t have to apologize so much. It’s all good. Coming to bed?”</p>
<p>“Uh, right, yeah, uh—” He fidgeted a moment before turning out the overhead light. “You’re sure this is—”</p>
<p>“You’re the one who wouldn’t let me sleep on my office couch.” She smiled, eyes already closing. “If you’re okay with it, I’m okay with it, yeah? This is fine. Just … come lay down.”</p>
<p>“Right. Yeah.”</p>
<p>They shuffled around each other for a moment, a little awkward, but Martin laid on the cot pressed to the wall, and Sasha took the side facing the rest of the room, turned off the nearby lamp, and they settled.</p>
<p>More or less.</p>
<p>Sasha faced away from Martin, her arms kept to her chest. She closed her eyes, chewed her lip, and tried not to think about ... well.</p>
<p>Martin laid at her other side, and—while he obviously was trying to take up as little room as possible—the cot was only so big. The two could lay on it, but not without being pressed against each other. <em>I should've insisted on sleeping on my couch,</em> she thought.</p>
<p>She tried to move without disrupting Martin, wrapping an arm around the edge of the cot, and tucking her other arm beneath her head.</p>
<p>"... are you sure this is comfortable? For you?" she asked, voice quiet in the dark, unable—unwilling—to disturb the almost-peace of the night.</p>
<p>"Uh, yeah, yeah, this is—this is fine. Are you—I mean, I can—the floor really isn't—"</p>
<p>"You're not sleeping on the floor, Martin." She rolled her eyes. "I just ... wanted to make sure you weren't ... uncomfortable, or anything. I mean ... the cot isn't exactly huge, so ..."</p>
<p>"I mean—it's—fine. Better than the couch, I'm sure."</p>
<p>"Or the floor."</p>
<p>"... yeah," he agreed. "Or the floor."</p>
<p>"So this is ... fine?"</p>
<p>"Yeah. Yeah. It's ... it's fine."</p>
<p>"Okay." She bit her lip. "Good night, Martin."</p>
<p>"Good night, Sasha."</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div><em>I write to you from a far-off country,<br/>to you speaking in softnesses I’ll never learn;<br/>the lazy drawl of vowels fond, of<br/>consonants rounded into their cartouches.<br/>You build in preservation, six hands to<br/>reconstruct.</em><p>
  <em>The song of your smile sings only for them;<br/>their harmonies respond only to your notes.<br/>Smiles like secrets whispered—your native language—<br/>and their twin tongues mirror understanding,<br/>but to me only smell of smoke.</em>
</p>
<p>Martin sighed. Closed his notebook, eyes flicking up to Sasha’s office door—<em>she’s still working in there, isn’t she?</em>—but Martin buried the impulse to make (yet another) cup of tea. Jon would return from his quest for follow-up statements, or Tim would drag Sasha away from her work at any moment now—they would come back to the Archives with dinner or to collect Sasha and take her back to their apartment or otherwise leave Martin alone.</p>
<p>The too-high ceiling of the Archives loomed above him, leaving too much space for silver worms to lurk, to hide. Desks and cabinets and boxes of files poorly organized provided ample cover; how could Martin keep an eye on every corner when the back of his neck prickled like something waited, watched him from behind?</p>
<p>He opened the most recent file on his desk, more for want of something to do with his hands—of a reason to stay in the Archives’ main office, rather than retreating to the storage room—than to continue working. He skimmed the notes, but kept his focus more thoroughly on the lookout for any silver worms which might be inching their way through the dark, capitalizing on the long shadows stretching through the Archives, chewing through the walls which faced the wet, rotting earth on their other side—an invisible infestation pressed at the edges of Martin’s world, threatening to burrow their way into the one remaining <em>safe</em> place—</p>
<p>He stood, abrupt, his chair giving a clatter as he pushed it back. Gathering his resolve, Martin walked to the storage room like he was crushing worms beneath his feet with each step. He gathered his night-clothes, his towel, the few toiletries that Tim had picked up for him—and, after a moment of deliberation, the candle he had asked for. He walked to the bathroom with a glance at the clock.</p>
<p>Surely Sasha would be out of the Archives by the time he was through.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>Martin sat in the shower.<p>The flickering of a candle caught the steam and he made himself smile so he could see it as a caress, instead of a reminder of the heaviness of the air, damp and pressing and <em>suffocating.</em> He tried to twist it into a poem, the water's spray on his skin like comfort and not the kind of repetitive touch that feels like nothing, like dissociation. But his nose ran in the humidity and it clung to his hair and forehead like sweat even as he tried to feel clean again, for once—</p>
<p>He closed his eyes, and the light fluttered through his eyelids like anxiety. Because of the candle? Because he couldn’t trust the darkness not to hide a song of being whole, of being part of a whole? Of being <em>loved?</em></p>
<p>He pushed those thoughts away. Sat under the water until his hair weighed more than heavy. (But not heavy enough to weigh him to his body.) The air chilled around him, even as the water stayed warm—though he wished it hot, blistering, if only to remember his skin.</p>
<p>He was dirty, but he always felt dirty. Unclean. His hair hung too long, choking at his neck and blinding in his eyes—even though he chose to grow it out, wanted to see if he looked any more like his mother with hair more like hers. His nails grew too long, he should cut them—but he wanted to keep the polish Sasha lent him on a little longer, even as he felt dirt cake beneath them like dead flesh, like rot. The candle burned, but Martin smelled only sweat, not even soap offering respite.</p>
<p>Even the shampoo bottle felt sticky beneath his pruning fingers.</p>
<p>He scrubbed and scraped the soap into his scalp until it burned.</p>
<p>He stood to wash his body even though it made his vision swim, because he needed to clean every inch, even as his scratching gathered more skin under his fingernails. The hot water agitated the marks red in the candlelight. He scrubbed where he knew sweat collected like decay in the day, where his binder pressed his chest not-flat-enough, where the folds of his skin made anxiety sweat through his underclothes.</p>
<p>He rinsed, the water now an itch against each of his stitched seams—revealing each thread and how to tear them, how to come undone, how fragile each stitch was. He ran the soap from his hair, though it wound so thick around his fingers he could hardly convince himself it washed all the way through.</p>
<p>Martin turned the water off and stepped out. Regretted the candle. An impulse buy he shouldn't have made, shouldn’t have asked for, handing more notes to Tim than he should have, thinking it would help him relax, but the smell only cloyed over the mold that might await him in the Archive's bathroom—after all, what use would it have served Gertrude Robinson? How long since it had last been cleaned? What hid, growing in the grout of the tile? How much of it had taken root now, in his flesh?</p>
<p>He pulled on his night-clothes, hurried, though they stuck to his damp skin and felt like a rotting cocoon he needed to shed. But Sasha’s kindness had to have been out of pity—or, perhaps, even out of guilt—and Martin couldn't risk exceeding whatever those feelings allowed.</p>
<p>He passed her office on his way to the storage room. (<em>Well-sealed,</em> he told himself. <em>It’s humidity-controlled; it’s well-sealed.</em>)<br/>He sighed at the light spilling into the empty Archives from under her door. Martin knocked and opened the door. “Sasha—”</p>
<p>She didn’t look up. She chewed the end of a pen—holding it in her mouth when she needed two hands to type. Her hair hung in front of her face where it had slipped from her hair-tie. Several folders—and more notes on top of them—littered her desk, open to images of infestations—in homes, workplaces. In bodies.</p>
<p>Even upside-down, the pictures made him blanch.</p>
<p>“Sasha,” he repeated. She glanced up at him for a surprised blink.</p>
<p>“Oh. Sorry, Martin. Did you need something?”</p>
<p>He raised an eyebrow. “It’s after ten.” She stared. As the seconds ticked by, he blushed, as she took in his standing in night-clothes. “You should … head home,” he said. “Why didn’t you leave with Tim?”</p>
<p>Sasha, at least, had the wherewithal to look sheepish. “I … told him Jon had set off to do some, uh. Field research. I said I’d meet him at home, once he found Jon.” She glanced at her phone. “I’d guess he hasn’t convinced him to go home yet either.”</p>
<p>Martin frowned. “You two are impossible,” he muttered. “Call Jon and tell him to go home. And you need to go home, or I’ll call Tim to come get you.” Sasha looked down at her files, her notes, guilty and hesitant. Martin ran an exasperated hand through his damp hair. “Sasha.”</p>
<p>“I just … I’m close. I don’t … I don’t know what it <em>is,</em> yet, but I—I’m close. To finding. Something. A solution, or—”</p>
<p>“Then you can find it in the morning. After you get some sleep.”</p>
<p>She turned her eyes back to him, wide and pleading, and Martin couldn’t tell if the shadows under her eyes were made or only accentuated by her desk lamp. “Martin,” she said, on the edge of desperate.</p>
<p>He sighed. “I’m going to make tea. Chamomile. I’m going to call Tim while it’s steeping, and you can work until he gets here. But you’re going to go <em>home</em> with him, Sasha.”</p>
<p>“Okay,” she agreed, in an absent tone that had Martin shaking his head as she returned to her work.</p>
<p>He walked to the break-room, the floor changing from wood to tile beneath his socks. He readied the kettle, set it on the stove-top, and waited.</p>
<p>If he listened closely, carefully, he could hear Sasha’s tapping on her keyboard, or the scratching of her pen on her notes.</p>
<p>Just before the kettle began to whistle, Martin dialed Tim’s number. He cradled his phone between his ear and shoulder as he poured water over the tea bags.</p>
<p>“Martin?” Tim’s voice came through after a <em>click.</em> “Do you—is everything okay?” The sounds of the city filtered in through his phone, the low hum of cars and people speaking at a distance.</p>
<p>“Everything’s fine,” he replied, “except it’s after ten and Sasha’s still here. Working.”</p>
<p>Tim laughed, dry and rueful. “Yeah.” He sighed. “Yeah, Jon’s …” Martin could hear his smile drop. “Jon’s trying to find any … others that Harriet Lee might have met before her disappearance. Uh, after she met … you know.”</p>
<p>Martin swallowed. “Right.”</p>
<p>“Not sure how he’s planning on finding any of her friends or anything, though,” Tim continued, trying to inject levity into his voice. “I mean, what’s he going to do, trawl bars looking for university students? Not like he exactly fits in with the scene.”</p>
<p>Martin gave a half-hearted laugh and a hum. “That’s why he’s got you, right?”</p>
<p>“If it were up to me, we would’ve started with her social media first—who knows where she even frequented, especially if she was just …” He sighed. “If she was just wanting to be around people after that, then who knows where she might’ve spent her time.”</p>
<p>Silence crackled through the phone.</p>
<p>“Right …” Martin threw out the tea bags. “You two should call it for the night, okay? Come pick up Sasha—I don’t … I don’t think she should be walking home alone, you know?” He picked up the mugs and walked to Sasha’s office, nudging the door open with a foot. “Have any of you eaten dinner?”</p>
<p>Sasha looked up, once again sheepish, from her work. “Thank you, Martin,” she murmured as she accepted the tea.</p>
<p>“Uh, I picked up a wrap … a couple hours ago?” Tim said. “But … I doubt Jon’s eaten, I couldn’t get him to stop trying to talk to people long enough …”</p>
<p>“Sasha hasn’t either.” Martin sighed.</p>
<p>“What about you?” Tim asked.</p>
<p>“I ate,” he said, simply. Sasha gave a small scoff.</p>
<p>“Was that Sasha?”</p>
<p>“You ate something from the break-room. That can hardly qualify as a meal,” she said. “We should keep it better stocked, though …” She scribbled something on a nearby sticky note.</p>
<p>“She disagreed with you, didn’t she? You didn’t eat, did you? Or you ate something small—did you just grab a snack from the break-room?”</p>
<p>“I—”</p>
<p>“I’m picking up carry-out on my way back,” Tim continued. “Tell Sasha we’re having curry. Hopefully I can pull Jon away from … whoever he’s trying to waylay now.”</p>
<p>“Tim—”</p>
<p>“We’ll be back soon.”</p>
<p>The line cut off with a <em>click.</em> Sasha smiled at Martin from behind her tea, more smug than she ought to be—but the glint in her eyes made her look more alert, so Martin just shook his head with a small smile.</p>
<p>“Tim’s bringing Jon back and picking up curry on the way,” he told her. She smiled. He ignored the flip in his stomach, the tightening in his chest. “… I guess I’ll go make more tea.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>Tim sent Martin and Sasha a text once he had convinced Jon to give up the ghost for the night—Sasha rolled her eyes at the phrasing, but Martin eventually persuaded her to similarly take a break for the night. Sasha sent back her and Martin's requests for food selections—<p>"It's fine, really," Martin protested. "I already ate—"</p>
<p>"Whatever we have in the break-room hardly counts as food, I'm sure of that, so just pick—what do you want? Tim's getting it from that place a couple streets down, by the cafe he's always bringing you loose leaf teas from?" She grinned at the flush apparent on Martin's cheeks. "Good to know he <em>does</em> owe me a fiver, in any case."</p>
<p>"W-what?" Martin stammered. "What are you—"</p>
<p>"Nothing," she replied, sing-song. "I just had my suspicions, nothing you need to worry about. Anyway, I can pull up the menu, if you want, just a second ..." She trailed off, typing on her phone, and handed it to him.</p>
<p>“An appetizer or something is fine,” Martin insisted. “Just—a bowl of white rice, okay?” Sasha shook her head.</p>
<p>“No way. You have to have—protein or something.” She scrolled through the menu. “Their chicken curry is good. If you haven’t had anything from here before, I can recommend that?”</p>
<p>Martin glanced at the price. “I—really, a side or something would be fine. A salad? One with—cheese. That’s protein. Right?”</p>
<p>She gave him a droll look. “Really, Martin? Tim finally has a better excuse to gift you things than ‘whoops, they gave me an extra’—of something he doesn’t even order for himself—and you think he’ll just get you a side salad?”</p>
<p>“He—what?” His face turned red. “Um, no, I—I’m going to pay him back, it’s fine, I—”</p>
<p>Sasha rolled her eyes. “He won’t let you. He just—wants to do something nice, but not imposing, for you. Let him.” She grinned. “You get a free meal out of it. Here, how about you pick something that looks good, and I’ll make sure Tim gets enough of everything for us all to share? Sound good?”</p>
<p>“I—I can at least chip in—”</p>
<p>“No need to, Martin, really.”</p>
<p>He fidgeted, picking at the hem of his sleep-shorts.</p>
<p>“… if it really bothers you, you can chip in, as you say, but …” Sasha bit her lip, looking down. “We—he—” She sighed. “Wants to do something nice for you. You’re always doing nice things for us, and—this isn’t to imply a debt or anything like that, just … wouldn’t it be nice? To let us do something for you?”</p>
<p>Martin’s heart stuttered in his chest. “… All right,” he agreed, voice soft. He scrolled through the list of curries. “Uh … this one?”</p>
<p>Sasha smiled. “Great, I’ll let Tim know.” He handed back her phone, and she started texting him.</p>
<p>“Um … Sasha?” Martin ventured, hesitant—careful. She looked to him.</p>
<p>“Yeah?”</p>
<p>“Tim … does it on purpose, doesn’t he? When he—when he brings in tea that you three don’t actually drink?”</p>
<p>Sasha’s smile grew to a grin. “Why don’t you ask him?” She finished her text and sat her phone aside.</p>
<p>“I don’t—” He cut himself off. Shook his head.</p>
<p>“There’s no … pressure, or anything, here, Martin. Tim has his … ways of expressing affection, to be sure, but they’re just as easily for friends as for anyone else.” Sasha shrugged. “And if he ever crosses a line, you can let either him or me know. Whichever is easier.”</p>
<p>Martin blinked at her.</p>
<p>“Really, Martin, you’re looking at me like I’ve grown a new face or something. Makes a girl wonder, you know?” She laughed, though, bright and reassuring.</p>
<p>Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen.</p>
<p>“They’ll be here with the food in about half an hour,” she said.</p>
<p>He nodded.</p>
<p>“… If it really comes as such a surprise that we—any of us might want to do something nice for you, I’m a little concerned with how you’re finding your time in the office, Martin.”</p>
<p>“What? No, the office is—the office is—fine. I mean. Aside from the … worms. But everyone in the office is. Fine.”</p>
<p>“Really? Jon’s not coming off too cold, is he?”</p>
<p>Martin flushed again. “No, not—not really.”</p>
<p>Sasha hummed. “Glad to hear it. Unless it’s only because he’s too buried in his work, but …”</p>
<p>“You aren’t exactly exempt of doing that either,” he said. She laughed.</p>
<p>“I suppose that is true.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>"I come bearing food!" Tim grinned as he opened the door to the Archives with a foot, holding a couple bags of food.<p>"I could have gotten the door for you, you know," Jon said, dryly, with a small smile.</p>
<p>"I got it, I got it," Tim insisted.</p>
<p>"You could have let me help carry the food, then."</p>
<p>"I said I got it though." Tim gave Jon a lopsided smile, earnest and bright, and Martin stood in the doorway to Sasha's office, watching the two with a small ache in his chest. Sasha followed him to the door in a matter of moments.</p>
<p>“Do you two need any help?” she asked. Tim turned to her and pouted.</p>
<p>“Why does everyone seem to think I can’t handle … three bags of carry-out and opening doors? I’m a grown man. I can take care of myself.”</p>
<p>Sasha laughed. Jon rolled his eyes. He kissed Tim’s cheek. “We know you can,” he said, exasperated and fond. “We can just also help out, sometimes, you know.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, yeah, don’t make this a serious thing about how I don’t ask for help, I should let you guys help too, blah blah, whatever. In a more serious setting, sure—”</p>
<p>“We’re just teasing you,” Sasha said, “though, as Martin has pointed out multiple times to me, none of us have had dinner, so why don’t we move the teasing over to the break-room and we can keep ribbing on you with the food in front of us.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I see. That’s all I’m good for, huh?” Tim turned to her with an expression of mock-insult. “Bringing food around and getting picked on for trying to take care of you.”</p>
<p>Sasha crossed the Archives and pecked Tim’s cheek—before taking the bags of food from him. “C’mon, Jon, let’s get the plates and silverware out. Martin’s already made tea enough for all of us.”</p>
<p>Jon smiled, and glanced at Martin, the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Of course he has,” he said—Martin’s heart flipped, just a little, at the tired fondness—<em>fondness?</em>—in his voice. Sasha led Jon into the break-room.</p>
<p>Tim sidled over to Martin’s side. “Careful. Looks like someone’s got a crush.”</p>
<p>“W-what?” Martin spluttered, face hot. “I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”</p>
<p>“Oh, come <em>on,</em> Martin, it’s kind of obvious.”</p>
<p>“… is it really?”</p>
<p>“Well. It is to me. But I’m the only one who isn’t <em>horribly</em> oblivious, so maybe you’re safe.” He gave a teasing smirk. “For now.” He nudged Martin with his elbow. </p>
<p>“C’mon, though. Food’s waiting.”</p>
<p>“You … won’t say anything, right? Tim?”</p>
<p>He rolled his eyes. “Cross my heart, Martin. I won’t breathe a word of it to anyone.” He shrugged. “Though, you know, she might pick up on it on her own. Hard to really keep anything from Sash. Especially if it’s somewhere on a digital device. That woman does <em>not</em> know the point of a password. Acts as though, just because it’s easily guessed, she has the right to waltz on in with it.” Tim laughed, though. “Hard not to just let her waltz in anywhere, huh?”</p>
<p>“Uh … right …” Martin trailed behind Tim towards the break-room.</p>
<p>“Have you had curry from this place before though? I mean, I like it all right, but it’s Jon’s favorite—and Sasha likes a bunch of dishes from it, too, so it’s pretty easy to get them to agree to eat from there, at least. Well. Easier than from some places. Getting them to agree to break from work long enough for a meal is difficult enough.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>Jon sat across from Martin, picking at his plate.<p>"... did you ... find anything about Harriet Lee?" Martin asked. He winced when Jon jumped at the sound of his voice. "Uh. Tim mentioned you were talking to people at some bars?"</p>
<p>"I was. I ... didn't find anything." He looked guilty. Martin resisted a frown. "I thought, if I could track where she had been, who she had been with, I could ... I could find if there were any more ... like her. Like." He bit his tongue. "Like Prentiss. So we could ... stay on top of it, as it were. Not. Get surprised again." Jon wilted. "I'll keep looking, but I ... I doubt my efforts will be very ... fruitful."</p>
<p>"You're trying your best."</p>
<p>Jon tightened his hold on his fork. "Quite," he muttered under his breath. "It just isn't good enough." Martin did frown, this time, certain he heard wrong. "Regardless. How are you finding ... staying at the Archives? I know it isn't exactly ... the best in terms of accommodations, but I hope that it certainly isn't ... too terrible."</p>
<p>"Uh, oh. It's not. Terrible, that is. I mean. I feel like I'm always checking the corners for worms, but ... well, I think I'd be checking the corners for worms no matter where I was. At least ... at least, here it's a, uh, little better?"</p>
<p>Jon nodded. "The sealed room is, I'm sure, a comfort."</p>
<p>"Well, that, too, but I more meant ... it's nice, uh, to not be alone? In all this? I mean, you and Sasha need to stop working such late hours, but ... this is nice, isn't it? All of us having dinner together?"</p>
<p>Jon gave a wry smile. "... it is, isn't it? We used to ... back in research, we'd order food in on nights we were staying late for ... whatever deadline it was one of us needed to finish before. It was never for ... the same kind of stakes that this is, but ... you're right, Martin. It is nice."</p>
<p>“I am right, though, that you two have to stop working so late.”</p>
<p>Jon hummed.</p>
<p>“You and Sasha are impossible.”</p>
<p>“And yet you put up with us.” He smiled.</p>
<p>Martin, face flushing, turned back to his plate. “Yeah, well, at least Tim helps try to keep you from working yourselves to the bone.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>“I’m worried about Martin,” Sasha confessed, her head against Tim’s shoulder, her legs in Jon’s lap. “I mean, I’m sure we all are, it’s just …” She bit her lip. “You’ve read about Jane Prentiss. What she did to the hospital staff … either Prentiss is the threat everyone thinks she is, and Martin would almost certainly be dead, or …”<p>“Or it’s been two years since we last heard of Prentiss, and her … condition seemed to be degenerating by that time already,” Jon finished. “If she’s still being consumed by the … into the flesh-hive, then who knows what kind of state she would be in by now.”</p>
<p>“To say the least. Not that I don't believe Martin about what happened, it's just ..." She sighed. "I don't know. It's all so ... complicated, isn't it?"</p>
<p>Tim brushed the hair from her face with a hum. "Easier to dispute the statements when they're not coming from someone you trust."</p>
<p>"... I think I'm just a little concerned about ... how he survived? I mean, he doesn't seem to be acting like Harriet Lee, and if Timothy Hodge's statement is accurate, she only survived about two days after her encounter with Prentiss ..."</p>
<p>"But he might not respond like Harriet did, and we don't have much of a way to know that," Jon said. <em>Until it's too late</em> hung in the air between them.</p>
<p>"He seems fine though, doesn't he?" Tim asked. "A little jumpier than usual, but it's not like we were throwing him surprise parties before this, anyway." He smiled, just a little, just a little sad. "We'll keep our eyes on him, okay? Make sure he's doing all right." He nudged Jon with his elbow. "Not like we leave the Archives all that often anyway. What's staying a little later, a little more often?"</p>
<p>"Other than an increase in ordering take-out?" Sasha smiled.</p>
<p>"We could always bring groceries in the break-room. It's practically a whole kitchen." Tim shrugged. "Or at least a whole kitchenette. Counter space is the bigger problem than the appliances."</p>
<p>Jon snorted. "We could even ask Elias to order something for us, if we need anything else. Appliance-wise. I feel like we wouldn't necessarily get away with writing groceries up as expenses."</p>
<p>"Speak for yourself." Tim kissed Jon's temple. "I get away with writing anything down as expenses."</p>
<p>"Then maybe you should claim the groceries as yours," Sasha said. "We'll make dinner at the Archives some night soon."</p>
<p>Jon smiled and leaned against Tim, closing his eyes. "You could make stir fry," he said. Tim chuckled.</p>
<p>"You're just saying that because you don't want to cook."</p>
<p>"In that excuse of a kitchenette? You're right, I'd rather not." He crinkled his nose. "Reminds me too much of the communal kitchen in college."</p>
<p>"Oh, you poor thing."</p>
<p>"I'll make something another night. Curry or maybe something with fish instead ..." Jon hummed—breaking off into a yawn. "What do you think Martin would like?"</p>
<p>Sasha laughed, a bright and lazy sound in the warm darkness of their flat. "I'm sure he'd like anything that you'd make, Jon," she said. Her words trailed off into a yawn too. "But maybe that's something to think about later. We should all probably go to sleep now ..." She closed her eyes and tucked her head under Tim's chin. He rolled his eyes.</p>
<p>"I can't carry you two back to bed unless you let me get up, you know," he teased. "I doubt anyone wants to sleep on the couch tonight."</p>
<p>"Mm, you're right about that," Sasha said. "I'm not exactly one for cricks in my neck or anything." She kissed Tim's throat. "But we can stay here a little longer."</p>
<p>"We'll stay here as long as you want to, baby," Tim said with a grin. He traced over her side, her back, with one hand, and let the other run through Jon's hair. "But I am saying we're not sleeping out here." Jon yawned again, but he nodded.</p>
<p>"Sure, Tim," he murmured, "whatever you say, you know?"</p>
<p>"You little shit." Tim rolled his eyes. "If you want to screw up your neck and wake up with even worse joints in the morning, be my guest, but I'm not staying out here all night. We have a perfectly good bed waiting for us in the bedroom. We don't have to sleep on the couch like a bunch of collect co-eds.”</p>
<p>Jon laughed.</p>
<p>Eventually, Tim coaxed Jon into leaning against the couch's armrest, if only for a few minutes. Cradling Sasha to his chest, he carried her—already mostly asleep—to the bed, and kissed her forehead before returning to the sofa for Jon. "C'mon, love," he murmured. "Let's get you to bed too."</p>
<p>Jon, his head on his arms, didn't open his eyes as he turned to face Tim with a hum.</p>
<p>Tim shook his head with a quiet laugh. "Yeah, all right, baby." He picked Jon up too, one arm under his knees and the other supporting his back, and held him close. Jon tucked his head against Tim's shoulder.</p>
<p>Tim stepped carefully back to their bedroom. Sasha blinked, blearily, at the door when Tim nudged it open again. She smiled and Tim set Jon down beside her. Jon curled up against her—her arms wrapped around him—and Tim flicked off the light, closed the door, and climbed into bed with them.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Distortion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Staring at it felt, Sasha thought, how she'd imagine synesthesia might feel. Like if she had imagined the hallway that once tried to devour her as a smell or a taste in turn, that would be how his laughter sounded—it set her teeth on edge and built a pressure behind her eyes—just looking at him strained her eyes. He sat across the table from her, his own eyes on his empty mug, and Sasha couldn't see the figure of him, with too-large hands and too-tall spine and all the corners and points of him which didn't make sense—but she could feel its presence, its weight. Especially as it left scratches on the wood of the table, as it fidgeted, inches from the visible ends of his fingers.</p>
<p>It waited, with a patience that mirrored how it had sat here, long after the close of the cafe, to speak with her. It might have even stayed here all day, all of the night before, since the last time she had seen him sitting here through the distorted glass.</p>
<p>"Who are you?" she asked, breaking the silence. Sounds rushed back in, like the rest of the world and all its white noise had been held at bay until she decided to speak, and she relaxed into the familiar sound of its static.</p>
<p>It frowned. "I don't have an answer to that," it said. Sasha gritted her teeth. "I don't say that to be obstinate, Archivist, it is simply ... how would a melody describe itself? Could it be said to have a self, enough to be a <em>who?</em>"</p>
<p>"If you're not going to give me any answers, then I'm leaving," Sasha told it. It had the sense to look sheepish, almost apologetic.<br/>"I'm sorry, I don't mean to be—difficult. I haven't ever really had to talk about myself before, I hope you understand. I'm sorry if I'm not very good at it." It pursed its lip. "You can call me Michael. It is a good a name as any, I suppose."</p>
<p>Sasha clenched her fists, skin suddenly clammy. <em>Michael</em> was not this thing's name, she knew that, but she doubting that any name would feel sufficient for it, so she simply nodded. "Well then, Michael. Why did you wait for me? What do you want from me?"</p>
<p>"Oh, no, you misunderstand—" It held onto the sound, the shape, of the 'a' just a fraction too long, and the hair on Sasha's neck stood on end. "Archivist, I'm not trying to have anything <em>from</em> you. I want to help you."</p>
<p>"Help me with what?"</p>
<p>"Well, it does seem as though your Archives presently have an ... infestation. I simply would like to help you exterminate it."</p>
<p>"And why would I believe you? Why would you want to help me?"</p>
<p>"Oh, Archivist, you do understand so little of this world, don't you? You don't know if you can believe me, but can you ever know if you're meant to believe anyone? You can, however, trust that I have a ... distaste, shall we say, for the flesh hive. I would like to see it done away with.</p>
<p>"As for whether or not you should trust me ... your partners are in danger." Sasha stiffened. "I'm not threatening them, Archivist. The flesh hive grows unbidden, and its stench creeps through to rot the very walls of your Institute. I can show you how to do away with it. Or at least to better prepare yourselves that you might be able to do that yourself."</p>
<p>"Okay. What do I have to do?"</p>
<p>"Meet me at the Hanwell cemetery. I trust you'll come alone, to protect your loved ones." There was a hard edge, almost bitter, to Michael's words, but not necessarily directed at Sasha. She frowned, noted it for later, but didn't comment.</p>
<p>"… Would you mind answering a few questions first?"</p>
<p>"I am not one for easy answers, Archivist."</p>
<p>"I'm sure you aren't. I'll parse through everything; I just want some answers from you, regardless of how difficult they are."</p>
<p>It hummed. Tilted it head the other way—its neck jutted at an angle that twisted Sasha's stomach. "Well, if you're content with piecing the sense together, why not. Ask your questions, Archivist."</p>
<p>"Why are you calling me 'Archivist?'"</p>
<p>"It's what you are, is it not?"</p>
<p>"I mean, I'm a Head Archivist, sure, but there are other archivists and other archives with archivists in them—why are you singling me out?"</p>
<p>"You're the one sitting across from me. Does that not single you out on its own?"</p>
<p>"Fine." Sasha folded her hands. "What's the flesh hive?"</p>
<p>"A rot—a <em>corruption</em>—run rampant. It began with an itch, with an ant hill, with a song, I believe. And it has been allowed to fester, to grow, to feed like an infection on flesh. It is ... like if you took the honeycomb pattern and pressed it into skin until the skin formed around the shape itself and grew further, not producing honey but producing comforts just as sweet."</p>
<p>She frowned, but bit back asking for clarification. She had said she would accept difficult answers. “And why do you want to help? Why are you helping?”</p>
<p>“Why, Archivist, I want to be friends.”</p>
<p>A chill ran down Sasha's spine at that, at the intonation, at just how this thing held the vowels of 'friend' like misshapen clay, like glass cooled wrong, like it sat only a few centimetres away from being a threat. She swallowed. "And why do you want to be my friend?"</p>
<p>"There are lots of reasons. You know, I used to know your predecessor. Not the kindest of women. You seem ... unlike her in some ways, and like her in others, and I am curious how that will turn out for you."</p>
<p>"You knew Gertrude?"</p>
<p>"Of a sort. But you know that there is no such thing as truly knowing people, don't you, Archivist? It is all lies and deceit and then it ends."</p>
<p>"... did Gertrude lie to you?"</p>
<p>Michael shifted in its seat, like the glitching of frames in a video edited to move slightly out of order, slightly out of time. "I don't want to answer these questions anymore, Archivist."</p>
<p>"Right. I—I'm sorry." That was practically an answer in itself. She filed the knowledge away for later, to examine, to hold to the light, searching for clues.</p>
<p>"Will you come with me to the cemetery?"</p>
<p>"I—"</p>
<p>"Meet me there at sunset, Archivist, if you want to save your partners."</p>
<p>It placed a hand over hers—heavy and misshapen, like stones in a wet bag—sharp stones, that dug into her skin—and then he was gone. Leaving his dried-out coffee mug across the table from her, and nothing else.</p>
<p>Well, nothing else, other than a few scratches in her hand, not quite bleeding, but red, irritated. She sighed. Stood. She'd wash her hands—just in case—and then—she looked at her watch.</p>
<p><em>I'll be out for a little bit,</em> she texted Tim and Jon. <em>Want me to stop by a grocery store for anything? Or pick up any take-out?</em></p>
<p><em>We could stand to get more milk and bread,</em> Jon replied a few minutes later. <em>When I get home, I'll see if there's anything else we need. I'm cooking tonight. What time do you think you'll be home?</em></p>
<p>
  <em>What time do you think dinner will be done?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Around 9, if I have everything.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I'll try to be back before then.</em>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>Sasha stared at the writhing tangle of worms and flesh that was once a man. Her stomach churned at the thick smell of rot in the air, the overhang of decay like a fog permeating every inch of the room—its walls, its floor, the space between them. But she itched, and not only from seeing the burrowing of worms through the once-a-man's skin. She itched to see more, to understand what lay on the ground before her—<p>She took a step forward. As the floorboards creaked beneath her feet and the worm-infested man stiffened, turned, and rose, she swallowed, but could not muster any regret for wanting to know more. She stepped back, staggered, really, as the hive, with holes in its skin like a wasps' nest, shambled up and toward her—she tripped. The clatter of metal sounded against the wood and splinters ground their way into her palms.</p>
<p>She looked to Michael with wide eyes, but he stood back, his head tipped slightly to the side, a small smile on his face that curled too much at its edges. He watched, but his eyes looked through or past or not far enough ahead of him, and Sasha could feel, in her bones, that she was not being watched, not being <em>witnessed.</em> She was, at best, an almost-amusement—but not amusing enough to warrant being rescued.</p>
<p>She grasped at the metal around her—canisters, she realized, and then <em>fire extinguishers.</em> She squeezed the trigger before the realization was even complete, and thick white fog—smoke—carbon-dioxide—filled the air.</p>
<p>The worms screamed, shrieked, like air escaping wet wood over a fire, like crabs steaming alive over a fire. She watched as the carbon-dioxide left them shriveling, blackening, desiccating like they became ancient and withered before her eyes. She sprayed until the worms didn't scream anymore, until the body which was once Timothy Hodge stilled, until the canister ran dry. She watched the remains, more like ash and scorch marks than like the crumbling ruins of exoskeletons, for a long moment.</p>
<p>"Well done," Michael said—purred—praised—and its voice grated her ears like fingernails catching on the chalkboard when the piece of chalk slips. "I wasn't truly sure if you had it in you. Had to check. I'm sure you understand."</p>
<p>Sasha turned and glared at it, but looking at it made her vision swim, made colors she couldn't describe curl at the edges of her eyes. She looked back to the remains of ... whatever was left of Timothy Hodge. Her stomach turned again, but this time remorse churned alongside her disgust; if he'd wanted to be buried, she doubted that would be an option. If there were even the chance that the worms could return, could use the smallest scraps left of him to feed and regrow, then she would have to ... prevent that, somehow.<br/>Burning would likely be the best option, she figured. She didn't carry a lighter on her, but she could always come back, once she gathered the supplies.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>“It told me …” Sasha frowned. “It said I had to listen to it, because it was trying to … help, or something. Said you two were in danger. The whole Archives, maybe, too, but I … I don’t know.” Sasha shook her head.<p>“You followed it.” Jon’s voice came hollow, his eyes distant, trying to look ahead in the story, to expect its ending. To put the pieces together as fast as he can.</p>
<p>She ducked her head, adjusting her glasses. “Well … yeah. I couldn’t just … let it go. Not after—well, not after seeing it through the window. Even before it told me … you know. I had to know.”</p>
<p>Tim sighed. “Between the two of you, I swear …” He shook his head. Leaned over Sasha’s desk and kissed her forehead. “We appreciate your concern for our safety. We <em>would,</em> however, appreciate it if you took some care for your own.”</p>
<p>She gave him a small smile. “Whoops?” She shrugged with one shoulder. “I just … I had to know. And I—I think I found something, to help us—or, not think, it’s more a matter of getting Elias to agree to it, but—fire extinguishers. Carbon-dioxide kills the worms.”</p>
<p>"… What else happened?" Jon asked. "You—you said that you went to the abandoned pub with him—with it—and mentioned thinking of burning it, but ... what happened after that? What happened next?"</p>
<p>Sasha frowned. Shook her head. "I don't—I can't remember. I think ... something happened, and there was this ... sharp pain in my shoulder that didn't feel so much like pain as ... I don't know. It <em>felt</em> more like the sound of breaking glass than it felt like an actual feeling ... and then they were gone. Michael and Hodge both. Just ... gone.<br/>"I don't remember much else from that day, if I'm being honest ... I know I made it home, and I remember everything after that, but I don't ... I can't remember how I got home, which ... that's a little concerning, isn't it?"</p>
<p>"Just a little," Tim said, but his tight smile betrayed just how much he worried, a small crease between his eyebrows.</p>
<p>"I'm fine, though. Now. I just ... I don't know, it's just ... that this thing said it wanted to help—that, arguably, I think it did, at least a little, by telling me—or showing me—how to handle the worms ... I'm not sure. We've only ever really encountered stories of these things in some kind of ... antagonistic capacity. That they might just ... sometimes decide to help ..." She shook her head. "It introduces more complications to the situation, at the very least. I'd like to see if there are any statements which resemble or seem related to Michael. It might not help—there might not be anything on file resembling it at all—but ... we should try, regardless. To see if there's anything more we can learn about it, and what it might want with us or from us."</p>
<p>"... it seems like it would defy being easily categorized like that, Sasha," Jon said, voice soft. "Even if someone had a previous experience with this same entity, there's really no way to know for sure how it might change or be changed or have changed ..."</p>
<p>"You're right. But it still might be worth the effort. It shouldn't take priority over your research into Prentiss and where she may have been or what she may have been up to, but ..."</p>
<p>"As a side project. I can manage it."</p>
<p>Sasha smiled, a bit of relief taking over the anxiety in her face, her fidgeting hands. "Thank you."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Itch</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"I thought that the paranormal circumstances and manifestations at the hospital have been well-documented. Why don't your colleagues see your story as, ah, respectable?"</p>
<p>"Well ..." Melanie fidgeted. "What I saw wasn't connected to the hospital. At least, not directly. I ..."</p>
<p>"Take your time. Give your name and the subject of your statement, and we can start in your own time."</p>
<p>She sighed. "My name is Melanie King. I've got a YouTube channel called Ghost Hunt UK."</p>
<p>"And your statement is regarding? This is just a formality."</p>
<p>"Like I said, my ... experience at the Cambridge Military Hospital."</p>
<p>"Recording dated 17th April, 2016. Statement begins."</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>“... And—this is going to sound weird, but—how she stapled her skin back on … it was like watching someone handle someone else’s pet, or something. She was careful with her skin, but not in a way that spoke to being comfortable or even attached to it—it was like she was holding something she had <em>borrowed</em> and he didn’t quite know what to do with it.<p>“I don’t know why that was the point I ran. I could have left at any time before that, but for some reason that was the thing that broke me, and I hurried back to the others as quietly as I could. Sarah returned about fifteen minutes later, and didn’t seem to suspect she’d been observed. I lay awake the rest of that night, smelling her cigarette smoke and the traces of her odd floral perfume ...</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>“Anything else?”<p>“Well … maybe. I’m not sure, but … there was something about that place. Something that, I think, Sarah was ... responding to, or intruding on, somehow, and I ... I don't know for sure what it is, but it felt ... bloody. Not like meat, like the Winnie the Pooh mural said, or even like dead bodies, which might make sense for a hospital. It felt like ... like the war had never left that place, somehow. Like, even though soldiers came to the hospital to get away from the battle lines and even though the hospital was opened up for civilians ... something in that place loved the war, and wouldn't let it go. That's what ... that's what it felt like was hanging there, in front of Sarah, before ..." Melanie shook her head. "But I didn't <em>see</em> that, that was just something I felt, so ... I'd understand why that would be more difficult to investigate than the rest of it. Not that, I imagine, most of your statements are easy to investigate."</p>
<p>Sasha gave a wry smile. "No, I suppose they aren't.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>“Oh. Ms. King. My apologies, I wasn’t aware—” Jon glanced at Sasha. “I brought files #0032408, #0113005, and #0113005-B, and compiled some notes of my own. I’ll just leave them here—”<p>“Wait, Jon. You’re a little more familiar with the frequent haunts of paranormal researchers, could you—”</p>
<p>“Was that a joke?” Melanie cut in. Sasha gave her a smile.</p>
<p>“It’s skin, again,” she continued, “but … I’m not sure. It seems of a different sort than the Rudenko or Rentoul statements …” She shook her head. “It’s the Cambridge Military Hospital.” She handed over the notes she’d jotted down during Melanie’s statement. Jon glanced over them.</p>
<p>“… Are you sure you weren’t … dreaming?” he asked Melanie.</p>
<p>“Are you serious?”</p>
<p>“Jon.”</p>
<p>“We just have to check every possibility. Obviously working in your field, you must have quite a powerful imagination—”</p>
<p>“Great. <em>Great</em>—”</p>
<p>“Jon—”</p>
<p>“—should’ve known this was a complete waste of my time—”</p>
<p>“—it’s not outlandish compared to other statements—”</p>
<p>“I’m not saying we won’t look into it. This is the Magnus Institute. Research is what we do.” Jon flipped through Sasha’s notes again. “If possible, we’ll review the footage, and investigate every possibility.” He looked to Melanie. “<em>Every</em> possibility does include the potential that this didn’t happen. Or at least not how you remember it.”</p>
<p>“Well, thank you so much,” she bit out.</p>
<p>“You had to have known that this was a possibility,” Jon said. “It isn’t necessarily that none of it happened—perhaps you were just confused, having just woken up. Or something else was going on—you do mention a strange smell multiple times, so perhaps that should be investigated—not that we have much to go off of, concerning what it might be, but, if we can get in touch with Ms. Baldwin ourselves, that might be something we look into—”</p>
<p>“What, you think I was <em>drugged?</em>”</p>
<p>“It’s a possibility.”</p>
<p>Melanie shook her head. “I can’t believe you—do you really think that—”</p>
<p>“I’m not thinking one way or the other about this incident, Ms. King. There is simply the possibility that something other than the paranormal is at work here. We will, like I said, look into it, and explore any and every possibility.”</p>
<p>She crossed her arms. “That’s <em>so</em> kind of you,” she spat.</p>
<p>Sasha sighed. “We can contact you later, once we’ve conducted our follow-up investigation, if you’d like to hear what we find. If not—if you’d rather put this behind you—we are working to amass a list of therapists who are either specialists in or at the very least open to paranormal-related trauma. If you’d like any recommendations as to who you might want to see, if you want to see anyone—”</p>
<p>“I don’t need a therapist.”</p>
<p>“Okay. In the case that you change your mind, you can email me.”</p>
<p>Melanie frowned. “Thanks, Sasha,” she said, reluctantly. She scowled at Jon. “Unless you offer this because you think that everyone who gives you statements is off their rocker—”</p>
<p>“That seems to be the general view of the Magnus Institute coming from your ‘respectable’ peers,” he replied, “but it is not a position we share.”</p>
<p>“Well, just about anyone can come in here and give their statement—no need for evidence or proof or—”</p>
<p>“And yet you chose to come here.”</p>
<p>Melanie crossed her arms. “I cannot <em>believe—</em>”</p>
<p>“All right,” Sasha cut in. “I think that’s all I need from you, Ms. King. I’m sure if you just go back into the main Archives’ office area, either Martin or Tim can show you the way out.”</p>
<p>“Right.” She glared at Jon. “Thanks for your time.”</p>
<p>“Have a good day.”</p>
<p>The door slammed, just a little, behind Melanie.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>"You watch her show."<p>"I have a professional curiosity."</p>
<p>Sasha hummed. "... You know, she's a friend of Georgie's. I'm going to be contacting her, to see if she has any more details about Sarah Baldwin she could share, if you wanted to ...?"</p>
<p>"Uh, no. Thanks, Sasha, but I ... it's probably best to leave that in the past. I hope she has more information to add ... haven't we heard the name Sarah Baldwin before?"</p>
<p>"Hm. Maybe? I can go back through the statements. This is why we were wanting a digital archive of at least all the names mentioned in each statement ... I can look."</p>
<p>"Well. Maybe that should wait until after we figure out the Prentiss situation. And learn what we can about Michael. I brought you the statements most heavily concerning unreality—I mean, if you would consider any of these statements part of reality at all—"</p>
<p>"Why do you do that?"</p>
<p>"What?"</p>
<p>"Whenever someone else tries to talk to you about work or the paranormal, you clam up. Shut down. Put on the whole skeptic's act—and don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about, you did it with me when I first came to research."</p>
<p>"Oh." Jon looked down. "I don't know, it’s not—”</p>
<p>“Jon.”</p>
<p>He bit his lip. “… it just ... feels safer, somehow. Like ... it feels like I’m being watched, when I'm working, following up on statements ... it's easier, to act like—like it isn't real, at least when I'm alone, or when people who aren't a part of the Archives are around ..." He shrugged. "I don't know—I know it's not—" He sighed. Ran a hand over his face. "I know it's not rational, and it certainly isn't useful, when trying to—speak to people, but ..."</p>
<p>"No, I get it. I—I get it, too," she admitted. "When ... when recording statements, when—when taking live ones, especially, I ... I don't know. Something's ... maybe something is watching."</p>
<p>"You—" Jon shook his head. "Maybe. But ... maybe not, and I—I don't know. Whatever it is—if it is anything at all—it'll have to wait for this Prentiss thing to be over. We can ... there's something bigger going on here, that much we already knew, but, right now, securing Martin's—making sure that everyone in the Archives is safe should be the top priority."</p>
<p>Sasha smiled, small and tired. She nodded. Rested her head on Jon's shoulder. "You're right. We have plenty of time to work out what else might be going on here—with Michael, with Gertrude's files, with whatever it is that might be watching the Archives—"</p>
<p>"Which could also just be the worms," Jon pointed out. "They—they're not <em>everywhere,</em> maybe, but they have been getting in more and more recently. We should ... we should see about getting a few more extinguishers. Just in case."</p>
<p>"I'll talk to Elias about it." She gave a wry smile. "Or I'll have Tim buy them and write it off as an archival expense. He's even better than I am at getting away with that, and he just ... talks Elias into signing off on it with little more than a reprimand."</p>
<p>"While you practically embezzle money from the Institute."</p>
<p>"The Archives have a ridiculous fund, actually. Did you know we have a travel budget?"</p>
<p>"Really? For what? Visiting the library?"</p>
<p>"No idea. But it's huge. Enough for multiple round-trip, international flights <em>yearly."</em></p>
<p>"... Gertrude?"</p>
<p>"Must have been."</p>
<p>"Where do you think she was going?"</p>
<p>"No idea. But I'm going to find out."</p>
<p>Jon kissed her forehead. "I know you will."</p>
<p>"In the meantime, maybe try not to be a prick to everyone who comes in. The Archives does kind of run on statements."</p>
<p>"We have enough statements that need to be filed for a lifetime."</p>
<p>"But there's always more knowledge out there."</p>
<p>He rolled his eyes. "I doubt that any one person coming off the street to give a statement is going to be holding the clue to everything."</p>
<p>"You never know. Gerard Keay might walk in tomorrow and tell us everything he knows about a—I don't know, paramilitary shadow organization led by a bunch of immortal assholes who have orchestrated this whole thing. Maybe that's why Gertrude had a travel fund. Working as a—a spy, in Soviet territory."</p>
<p>"Right, yeah, I'm sure that's exactly why."</p>
<p>"Maybe she was in America, instead."</p>
<p>"Hunting werewolves?"</p>
<p>"Maybe!"</p>
<p>Jon smiled. “Yeah, maybe.” He sighed. "... Or maybe Jurgen Leitner will show up with an explanation for his damn books," Jon said. He shook his head. "... if Ms. King comes back, I'll attempt to be more ... civil with her."</p>
<p>Sasha rolled her eyes. "Well, to be fair, it wasn't <em>all</em> you, so ... I guess I'll ask her to also try not to yell at you. Maybe if no one starts it, it won't happen at all."</p>
<p>"I mean, I didn't quite <em>start</em> it—"</p>
<p>"Well. I did say it wasn't <em>all</em> you, but it was definitely about <em>half</em> from you, so—"</p>
<p>"Her entire profession looks down on—"</p>
<p>"Yes, yes, they don't appreciate the purpose of the Institute or respect the research that gets done here; they have too limited a view of the paranormal and how it interacts with society—but you also said that her entire professional life is built on being a charlatan—"</p>
<p>"That's because it kind of is. Turning what could be important research into entertainment—"</p>
<p>"Well, she is right. That people won't be engaged by the research that goes into the show, the evidence they gather, unless it's—"</p>
<p>"They sensationalize it. And make actual researchers into the paranormal look like they're all amateurs, just based on what want-to-be ghost-hunters with cameras put on the internet."</p>
<p>Sasha sighed. "All right, all right. Just promise that, if Ms. King comes in again, you'll try your best not to end up fighting again."</p>
<p>"... yeah, all right, I promise. But if she—"</p>
<p>"I'll ask her the same thing, if I see her again," she interrupted. "There's no need for you two to be yelling at each other so much ... honesty, you two are kind of similar. The same sort of willingness to say what you believe, the pursuit of knowledge perhaps beyond what's safe—"</p>
<p>"That's not just me, you do that too—"</p>
<p>"—the passion about topics that can easily goad people into arguments because you insist on thinking that you're way is best—"</p>
<p>"Hey!"</p>
<p>Sasha shrugged. "Stubbornness and determination are the same thing, you know. It's just a matter of how useful it is at the point in time. Passion can easily lead to being close-minded about how something is or should be. Nothing is necessarily always a good or always a bad trait. It just ... is. And you and Ms. King seem to have quite similar traits that rub against each other in ways that irritate you both immensely."</p>
<p>Jon rolled his eyes. "All right, you maybe have a point."</p>
<p>She laughed. “Only maybe though.”</p>
<p>“Yeah. Only maybe.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>Sasha's hands shook slightly as she flipped through the file. She clicked on the tape recorder and took a slow, steadying breath. "Statement of Jane Prentiss, regarding ... a wasps' nest in her attic. Statement given February 23rd, 2014. Audio recording by Sasha James, Head Archivist at the Magnus Institute.<p>"Statement begins.</p>
<p>"I itch. All the time. I itch and hum and scrape and scratch and still it moves beneath my skin.</p>
<p>"I don't know why I'm here. Not really. All I know is that, here, something watches. Something waits and doesn't let shadows lie undisturbed, uninterrupted in their wholeness, in the shelter they provide. The cockroaches can't scurry out of sight here; an infection could never go unnoticed.</p>
<p>"There is a wasps' nest in my attic. I do not know how long there has been a wasps' nest in my attic. It's not even my attic. I just live there—I simply rent the room beneath it. I do not own the ground it's built on; I do not own the land on which the hive grows. My landlord doesn't seem to know the hive grows either. But you would.</p>
<p>"You do, now, but you would have, anyway, simply because you could not leave a stone unturned, you couldn't leave the pill-bugs to their slumber.<br/>"That's why I'm here. You can help me, if anyone can—if I want to be helped. You might be the only ones to see it, to know what might be lurking in the underneath, and how to scare it away, how to make it scatter beyond the edges you peer into.</p>
<p>"If I wanted to be helped.</p>
<p>"You need to understand, I don't know if I do. It sings to me so sweetly, and it scares me, but I need it.<br/>"I itch. All the time. I itch and it begins just beneath my skin and crawls ever-closer to my very core. It creeps and slithers and burrows into me and I can feel it, and it <em>itches.</em></p>
<p>"I don't know when the itch began. I don't know how long I have itched, or if there was even a time before—</p>
<p>"No. There must have been a time before the itch, I remember there was a time before. I had friends, I think. I worked at a shop called Good Energies. I sold crystals to couples with color in their hair and gave card readings. Sometimes I said they sang to me, though they did not, that I could hear them whisper to me their secrets—I used to call myself a witch.</p>
<p>"I don't remember what happened. I was left alone.</p>
<p>"I didn't want to be alone. I don't <em>like</em> to be alone, I feel—I feel myself slipping, when I'm alone, my edges blurring, fading into nothing, losing who I am, what I am, losing my skin to the shadows, to the fog—</p>
<p>"But they called me <em>toxic</em> and left me to the empty dark. I don't think I knew what that word meant. I don't think I do now. All I know is that, whatever it is, it's the reason they left me. I clung so tightly, I think, to their sides, trying to give them everything, trying to let them burrow their roots into my skin so they could grow, trying to do the same with mine, but they <em>left</em> me and now all I remember is the singing of the nest.</p>
<p>"It has a face, you know. The nest is its face; it is not the whole of the hive. You can't see the whole of the hive; it's too big, too vast, spreads too far beneath the soil. Even here, you can only see its faces. You can only see where it's willing to look back.</p>
<p>"I stare into its face. Not for its fractals, not for the swirls and patterns along its skin, but for the singing that comes beneath it.</p>
<p>“It loves me. It <em>wants</em> to love me, and it’s been so long since I’ve been wanted. It sings like a calling, like a courtship, and, even if I didn’t before, I <em>need</em> it. It tells me I am beautiful. It tells me I am loved—and when was the last time someone—something—touched you like it held you dear? When were you last gathered in arms—two or six or the countless collective of the hive—and treated as precious? As vital? As <em>necessary,</em> your lungs inseparable from theirs, breathing as one?</p>
<p>“When was the last time your body felt like home?</p>
<p>“I cannot remember being loved by anything before the wasps’ nest. There must have been someone, long ago—a mother, maybe? A father? A sister? A friend?</p>
<p>“A lover?</p>
<p>“But I was left, alone, abandoned, cast aside as unwanted and broken toys are—but the nest will not abandon me. It grows within me. It cannot leave.</p>
<p>“There are no wasps in the wasps’ nest. I am not alone in that attic though, and there is nothing which can take it away from me. I am a part of the hive just as it is a part of me, and that will never be severed. It matters not the people who have left me, for I have found a home that even my landlord cannot take, no matter what my monetary situation is. You know, I used to be so worried about where all that money was going, how I would make enough, how I could continue to have enough in order to make the rent each week, each month, in order to pay for the necessities, in order to buy the food which I needed. But did you know that the hive provides? That ants who do not go out in order to gain and find food are still fed by the rest of those in the colony? And I am the same, I feed the hive and so it sustains me, and that is how my existence shall be until the end of whatever might be called life. As I am now immortal through being a home.”</p>
<p>"It is not something you can take away from me, either, as you cast your cold and cruel light on it, as you try to find for yourself the corruption to weed out from your cupboards. I see now, that your clinical view cannot—could never—understand the hive and the home it's made for me, the home I've made for it within my skin. I've tried to tell you, tried to convey the love it has for me and I for it, but I cannot even convey to you how it is that I <em>itch.</em> I itch and itch and want to dig my fingernails into my flesh until the rot itself comes up beneath them. I want to pull it out and into my hands, I want to hold it to my chest so it can bury back through me all anew.</p>
<p>"I itch and the buzzing beneath my skin sings in harmony to the hive's song and it is all that there is. All that I am. All that I will ever be.</p>
<p>"I know you cannot help me. And I know I would not want you to, if you could. I will return to my apartment that my landlord believes he owns and I will embrace the hive. I will become part of it. And I'll never be alone again."</p>
<p>Sasha took a  shaky breath. "Statement—statement ends." She stared at the paper in front of her. "Well, this is ... unfortunately, it doesn't seem to add much to what we already knew about Jane Prentiss ... she did work at Good Energies, but seems to have been ... asked to leave, after an incident concerning an ant infestation. Her ex-coworkers—with whom, it seems, she had once been friends—said they had lost contact with her around the time of her leaving her position.</p>
<p>"She had always been difficult, but it seems the experience with the ants exacerbated the worst parts of her personality. They found their experiences with her to be growing unhealthy, and so ties were cut.</p>
<p>"Most of her old friends were unwilling to say much beyond that. Only one woman, Melissa Harris, was willing to say anything more, but she didn't have much more to add. There was a man who came to Good Energies sometimes—a handsome, Black man—who would look at Jane with sad eyes. Jane used to be a practicing witch, not only calling herself one; she used to attend rituals by the river. I don't know how these details fit into the whole picture, but ..." Sasha sighed. She ran a hand through her hair. "I don't ... I need to lie down. This is all ..." She let out a shaky breath. "I was hoping this statement would help, when I found it, but instead I ... I have more questions than answers, and this just ..." She swallowed. "Something about it makes me ... itch."</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>"I read Jane Prentiss' statement," Sasha said. "I ... I don't know much more than I had before I did, but ... if you want to read it, the file's on my desk."<p>Jon frowned. "Are you ... all right?"</p>
<p>Sasha shook her head. "No, not ... not really." He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to his chest. She hunched her shoulders, pressed her face into his neck.</p>
<p>"... do you want to talk about it?" he asked. Kept his voice soft. "Or would you rather ... not, at least for now?"</p>
<p>"We—we should probably talk about it," she replied, muffled. "But I ... not now. I don't think I can—not right now. It's—it was a lot, but also—it didn't give a whole lot of information, nothing that we didn't already know, other than ... other than what she was thinking and how she felt about it and ... she was scared, Jon. She was scared and alone and the—the bugs, or worms, or wasps, or whatever—they make her feel less alone, and I—" She took in a reedy breath. "All she wanted was to be loved, and this ... this is what happened to her for it. How is that—how is that fair, or good, or—she deserved better, and, maybe if—I don't know. I don't think Gertrude read the statement, I guess, but—maybe Jane could've been helped. Maybe this—maybe this didn't have to happen. But ..." She shook her head. "Maybe she was already too far gone by the time she gave the statement. She said ... she kept talking about a song, of the nest, or the hive, and ... maybe it was too late as soon as she could hear that ... I don't know. I don't know. I—I wish this weren't happening, though."</p>
<p>"I know." Jon ran a gentle hand through her hair. "But you're doing the best you can, and we'll get through this. All right? We'll get through this. And if ... well, if she could've been reached, maybe we'll ... any new statements, we'll try to prioritize. To try to help people, okay?" He sighed. "But that's for later, okay? Right now ... I'm more worried about you than I am about anyone else."</p>
<p>She gave a soft, wet laugh. "Yeah, all right. I'm—I'm not fine, I guess, but I'm ... I'm okay. Better with you here, and ... maybe better if we talk about what we're going to do next. I—I don't know, her statement didn't have a whole lot of really useful information in it, not—not really, but maybe—we could try using some of the people she used to know, maybe—I don't know. One of her ... someone who used to be a friend of Jane's, or at least a coworker, mentioned a guy who used to come to the shop, who looked at her with <em>sad</em> eyes—I don't know, maybe it's a long-shot, but what if he knows something?" She sighed. "But I don't know how we'd find him. All we have is a vague description, with the knowledge he used to be a regular at the store before it closed down ... maybe he frequents similar shops, but that's still not the most helpful ... it doesn't really narrow anything down ..."</p>
<p>"But it might be a place to start," Jon said. "We can look into similar shops in the area—if only to make sure that something like what happened at Jane's place of work doesn't happen again anywhere else ... and she used to practice rituals by the river with people, right? That's not a solitary thing, so maybe we can ask people from her ... coven." He scowled at the word. "... even if she wasn't particularly close to anyone, maybe someone knows something, knows where she used to frequent, if only so we can try to find any other cases like Harriet Lee's and Timothy Hodge's ... we don't want to risk this spreading anymore than it has, especially without our knowing ..."</p>
<p>"But those people knew her so long ago, I don't know if ..." She frowned. "But I guess it is the best that we've got, maybe. While we're at it, we could try to look into her landlord and his property—except he died in the fire that burned down her flat, so there isn't much there, but maybe ... his name was Arthur Nolan, maybe he's ... we can at least look into his history, see if there's anything ... I don't know. Jane made mention of wondering for 'how long has he not known about the wasps' nest,' and I ... maybe we should try to see if he did know anything about it. Not sure why he wouldn't have just gotten rid of it, but ..."</p>
<p>"It's worth at least trying to look into ... and we'll keep an eye out for any statements that seem related, just in case ..." Jon sighed and kissed Sasha's temple. "Things'll work out all right," he said softly. "We'll figure this out. We'll keep everyone here safe."</p>
<p>She nodded. "We have to," she said, "I just ... there's so much we don't know, and not having a sufficient database doesn't help—we don't know what we're looking for, or where to find what we're looking for, and ... tracking down people that are only tangentially related might be all we have to go on right now, but it won't necessarily lead anywhere, and Martin is still stuck living in the Archives, and we—well, we hardly go home anymore at all, but I—I'm worried the worms will follow us, too, back home, and—" She took in a deep breath. Shook her head. "There's just so much going on that we don't understand, and that ... that scares me. We're in the dark about so much. How are we supposed to figure any of this out? It's like ... trying to piece a puzzle together and know what the picture is when we have only a handful of the original thousand pieces. How are we ... I don't know what to do.</p>
<p>"I just wish—" Sasha ran a hand through her hair with a sigh. "It feels like there just isn't enough time to figure out all the pieces—or that the pieces will take too long to come into place. We have to put the entire Archives back into some semblance of order, along with establishing our digital database, on top of ... dealing with parasitic, flesh-eating worms that are trying to break in?" She put her face in her hands. Rubbed her eyes. "I just ... it's all so much, on top of the actual recording of the statements—which ... I don't know why it's so difficult. I mean. I sit down and I start them, and that's ... fine. Starting them—finishing them—is easy, it's just that ... afterward, I feel ... I don't know. Not myself. Tired and—and dazed, almost. And I don't think anything's going to really change that, I guess, or—I don't know. Maybe it's just because this last one was Prentiss' statement.<br/>"Not that it said much. Other than a look into how her mental health was just before she was admitted to the hospital, the statement was ... more or less useless. It didn't contain any information not already on her file in terms of her work at Good Energies, the subsequent break-down at work over an ant infestation, and her being found in the attic of her apartment with her arms in some kind of ... organic material. Her statement says that it's a wasps' nest, but ... I'm not sure how literal the details of her statement can be taken. She ... she talks a lot about a song, the song of the hive, and love, and ... I'm not sure if any of it could make sense outside of showing her thought process at the time."</p>
<p>"... so we're where we always are."</p>
<p>"With more questions and not enough answers."</p>
<p>"Great." Jon leaned his head on Sasha's shoulder. Turned his head to press a gentle kiss to her neck. "At least we found her statement. And, if nothing else, we have an example of the thought processes of people who ... might be or might become like Prentiss."</p>
<p>"… Do you think there might be more? People like her?"</p>
<p>"I don't know. I hope not. My research into connections to Harriet Lee haven't turned up anything—I haven't found anyone else who came in contact with her who's experienced symptoms at all like hers, Timothy Hodge's, or Prentiss', so that's some comfort." He sighed. "But, like we were saying ... there are so many people who aren't directly involved, but are on the periphery, and I haven't had the chance to go through all of them. I might never be able to go through all of them, I mean—how many people does one person come into contact with? How many do they even remark upon? Or remember? What if someone came in contact with her, and just thought she was ... I don't know, someone on the street, or thought, similarly to Ms. Lee, that she was just an assailant? Ms. Lee didn't think to give a statement, at least none that we've found, so Jane must be able to interact with people in a way that doesn't immediately bring the Institute to mind ... we can look all we want into her friends and her landlord, but Ms. Lee wasn't connected to Jane personally at all. I don't know how we could find her that way. Maybe by looking at the places she used to frequent, before ... well, before, but that might not reveal much at all, and physically trawling through places mentioned or related to mentioned locations ..."</p>
<p>"It doesn't work very well, does it?"</p>
<p>Jon frowned—though it looked to Sasha more like a pout. "No, it doesn't work very well ... finding the places is one thing, but getting people to talk once you're there, or to even know what you're really looking for once you're there ... it isn't helpful. It's like trying to find a needle in a haystack, except you don't know which haystack you're looking to dive into, and you still don't know what a needle looks like, either. It's just ..."</p>
<p>"Flying in blind."</p>
<p>"Yeah ... but it feels better than doing nothing, at least ..." He sighed. Shook his head. "I don't know."</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>Tim returned to the Archives with his arms filled with grocery bags. He grinned across the office at Martin, who sat at his desk—more than a little confused—in his sleepwear, working on his last compilation of notes for the night.<p>"I thought you headed out?" Martin furrowed his brow. "Why did you bring ... groceries?"</p>
<p>"Well, what else are we supposed to eat while we stay here?"</p>
<p>"'We?'" he parroted back.</p>
<p>Tim shrugged. "Sasha and Jon hardly leave, you're staying here indefinitely, and the Archives seem like one of the safest places for now. I mean, I've seen a couple worms around outside, but they aren't getting in yet, and ..." He bit his lip. "Gotta admit, I don't like the idea of them following us home ..." He then gave Martin a conspiratorial smile. "And, this way, we can bill the Institute for the extermination."</p>
<p>"So you brought ... groceries."</p>
<p>"The break-room has a kitchen for a purpose, right? I didn't get anything too fancy. Rice, beans, brought some of our spices from home. Gonna put the chicken in the fridge to defrost—we can't just have take-out every night, you know? Gets kinda costly, especially if we only order in the area." He shook his head. "That's what we get for being in Chelsea, though, huh?"</p>
<p>Martin stared after him as Tim waltzed into the break-room.</p>
<p>"Could you tell Sasha that I'm back with food?" he called out. "And text Jon, if you don't mind. He's still out chasing some lead or something ... not exactly sure which one, but he's doing some investigation at the public library. Not sure what records he's looking for that aren't online or here, but ... tell him I'm making sushi tonight. Gonna do it before the fish sits too long, you know?"</p>
<p>Martin nodded, even though Tim couldn't see him. "Uh, yeah, okay," he called back. He closed the file he was working on and walked over to Sasha's office door. He knocked.<br/>"Come in," he heard through the door, her voice absent—distracted. He smiled, just a little, and shook his head as he opened the door.</p>
<p>"Tim came back with some groceries. He's making sushi for dinner."</p>
<p>Sasha looked up from her work—two books open on her desk, with papers and notes between them, her laptop open just within arms reach at the very front of her desk. "Oh." She blinked, as though getting her bearings, or otherwise coming out of a haze. "Thanks, Martin. Tell him I'll be right out?"</p>
<p>"Are you actually going to be right out, or are you going to get lost in your work again?"</p>
<p>She, for her part, did look a little sheepish. "Fine, you caught me." She saved her work and stood—leaving her work on her desk, Martin noted, likely so she could come back after dinner without needing to set up again. "Jon still out?"</p>
<p>"Yeah, at the library. I was going to text him, but he might listen to you more than me."</p>
<p>Sasha laughed. "Well, maybe. But it's also a little hypocritical coming from me, telling him to leave his work when I have to be dragged away from mine too. Maybe we both should text him, just in case. I'm sure he'd like to hear from you, anyway. Just to know you're doing okay."</p>
<p>"I—well—he saw me this morning, before he went out, I'm sure he—"</p>
<p>"You know how he is. Even if he doesn't say it, he does worry." She shook her head. "Just text him too, yeah? I'll try my best, but hearing it from more than one of us might help. You never know."</p>
<p>Martin frowned, but he couldn't argue. "Yeah, all right. Come on, once you're in the break-room I'll text him."</p>
<p>"Not even going to give me the chance to keep doing my work?"</p>
<p>"Nope. Tim wouldn't either, so you can come now, or once Tim's finished setting up the water for the rice."</p>
<p>She smiled. "That's fair." She grabbed her phone—Martin saw her hand pause over some of her notes.</p>
<p>"No work at the dinner table," he said with his own, small smile. Sasha laughed, a surprised, bright sound. She nodded.</p>
<p>"All right, all right." She crossed the office. "Whatever you say. Let's go bother Tim while he cooks."</p>
<p>Martin followed her, picking up his phone as he walked by his desk, and opened the messenger app. <em>Tim's picked up groceries for the Archives. He's making sushi tonight. Come back for the night, yeah?</em> he sent.</p>
<p>An answer appeared only a few moments after his text. <em>I'll be back soon. I found some newspaper clippings concerning the ant infestation at Prentiss' old workplace—need to finish copying notes down first.<em></em></em></p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Martin rolled his eyes and leaned against the break-room's doorway. <em>The clippings will still be there tomorrow. Bring what you already have back with you, and you can get the rest tomorrow.</em></em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>
      <em>Or I can finish now and have everything I need to start investigating further tomorrow.</em>
    </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>
      <em>Sasha's finished her work for the night, you know.</em>
    </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>
      <em>Good. I'll be back soon.</em>
    </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>
      <em>Define soon.</em>
    </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Another few moments passed and, without receiving a response, Martin pocketed his phone. Sasha and Tim looked to him, smiling.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"What's the word?" Tim asked. Martin shook his head.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"He's insisting on finishing up his notes on clippings he found about the infestation at Prentiss' work place. He says he'll be back once that's finished, but ..."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Who knows what he'll consider to be 'finishing' with that," Tim finished for him. "Did you tell him I was making sushi?"</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Yeah."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Damn, I was hoping that would get him."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Sasha chuckled and kissed Tim's cheek. "Better luck next time."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"What about you two? Did either of you text him?"</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Yeah, while I was in line at the grocery store. Heard basically the same as you."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Sasha nodded.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"He really can be a piece of work, huh?" Tim rolled his eyes, fond. "Well. We knew what we were getting into. He'll be back eventually, and if there isn't any sushi left for him ... okay, well, I'm making enough for the four of us, so I'm sure that's not going to happen. And depending on how much salmon there is leftover, we might have sashimi tonight too. But the sentiment is there."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"No, it's not," Sasha teased. "Even if there weren't any food leftover for him by the time he gets back, you'd make him his own meal anyway."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"... well, yeah. It's my turn to make dinner, so ..."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>She laughed and kissed Tim's cheek again. "It's cute. And I'm sure he'll be back soon. Ish. Soon enough."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Yeah, but you two have a very different concept of 'soon' than the rest of us, especially when it comes to your work."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Martin fidgeted in the doorway, like he stood on the fringes of something he shouldn't be intruding on. Like he was invading their privacy, simply by being present. This was ... something for them, he thought, like the break-room was just a stand-in for their own kitchen, and Martin felt a deep-seated awkwardness at simply being present, on the periphery.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"At least I left my office when Martin came to get me."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"And if we had only texted you, you wouldn't have."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"... okay, that's probably true."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Tim raised an eyebrow. "'Probably' true?" He looked to Martin with a grin. "Back me up on this, would you? 'Probably' true my ass. Just over text, we wouldn't be able to convince her any better than we can Jon."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Oh, uh ..." Martin smiled and gave Sasha an apologetic shrug. "He's right."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Told you." Tim kissed her temple and turned to the counter. "Now stop distracting me, or the rice is gonna stick to the pan, and nobody wants that." She wrapped her arms around Tim's waist and hummed. "I also have to cut the stuff for the filling—"</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"What are we having?" she interrupted. He rolled his eyes.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Salmon, avocado, and cucumber. Which all still need to be prepped," he said, looking over his shoulder at her, "and you're in the way."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Your arms are free."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>He shook his head. "Fine."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>The steps of this dance seemed, to Martin, to be practiced, rehearsed—familiar the whole way through. This was how they were together, in their kitchen, in their own home. Martin pulled his phone out again, looking away.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em><em>Salmon, avocado, and cucumber are going into the sushi rolls,</em> he told Jon, if only for a distraction, for something to do other than witnessing the ease with which Sasha and Tim fit with each other.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>He didn't receive a response to that, either. Jon must have set his phone aside, or turned off his notifications, or otherwise was too involved in his work to answer. Martin opened a simple game on his phone to occupy himself.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>He couldn’t help but wonder where Jon fit into their routine. Did he also interfere with Tim’s cooking, a small smile on his face as he kept his hands on him? Did he sit on the counter, not quite in the way of any of the food, and tease Sasha and Tim in turn for their immaturity, voice dry to disguise his amusement? Did he distract Sasha instead, in some effort to help Tim cook?</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>What about nights when it wasn't Tim's turn to cook? When Jon made dinner, what did he make? He liked curry, but was that something he made, or was it something Sasha or Tim would make for him? When he cooked, did Sasha press against his back too? Or did Tim, resting a chin on his shoulder with a stooped back? Did Jon lightly swat at them, to keep them from taking food too early, before it was finished? Did he lean back against them, basking in the embrace even at slight risk to the food?</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Martin frowned at his phone screen. <em>Unprofessional,</em> he told himself—as though there could be anything professional about living at work, and having his colleagues cook dinners for the four of them in the break-room. As though his three colleagues weren't all already in a relationship—<em>okay, so not unprofessional, just pathetic.</em> He bit his lip. Shook his head, just slightly.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>He should make dinner at some point, since the three had been kind enough to buy take-out or groceries for the Archives. It was the least he could do. He'd have to think about what to make—he'd have to know what groceries Tim bought.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Martin glanced over at the two. Sasha still leaned against Tim, but she was no longer trying to get in the way as he cut the salmon with the confidence of routine. Silence had lapsed in the break-room.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Time passed, and the rice finished. Martin pointedly didn't watch Tim's hands as he rolled the nori and rice around the fillings; he opened the messenger app again to text: <em>Sushi's almost done. It's been a while, are you on your way back yet?</em> He wasn't even sure if he was expecting a response.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em><em>Catching the next train,</em> the answer came. <em>I'll be there soon.</em></em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Martin smiled. "Jon's coming back on the next train," he said. "He'll be back soon." <em>Text me when you get on the train?</em> he typed. Hesitated. He deleted the message. <em>Let me know when you're on the train?</em> didn't sound any better. <em>Can you text me when you're on the train so I know you didn't get eaten by worms,</em> would go over exceedingly poorly. Martin bit his tongue.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em><em>Get back safe,</em> he texted instead. He sent the message before he could over-think it.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em><em>I'll let you know when I'm on the train,</em> Jon sent back.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Martin smiled.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Sasha gave his arm a playful nudge. He jumped, having not noticed her walk over, and held his phone to his chest. "He say anything else?" she asked, tone light—teasing. Implicating.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Uh, not really. Just that he'd let me know when he got on the train? You know. So you'd know when to expect him for dinner."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Right." She grinned. "He'll text <em>you</em> so that <em>we</em> know. And definitely not for any other reason."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Well, I mean—I was already texting him, so—it's just easier, I guess—I—"</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"I'm just teasing." Her smile turned soft. "Don't take it so seriously, okay? Everything's good." She paused. "Well, as good as things are right now, I guess." She shifted awkwardly, looking down at her feet. "Not to suddenly make you have to think about that though." She winced. "My bad."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Martin smiled. "Don't worry about it," he said. "Hard to forget about it anyway, you know?" He shrugged. Put his phone back in his pocket. "Easier not to think about it when you guys are here, but ... still not the easiest to stop thinking about. I mean, you two wouldn't be here for dinner without the whole ... worm ... thing happening, so ..."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>She frowned. "Well. Once this is all over, you can expect invitations to dinner at our place," she said. "We can still eat together. You know." She smiled again, now small, a little hesitant. "Without the threat of silver worms hanging over our heads," she joked, even if it fell a little flat.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>The clink of plates on a table got their attention. Tim grinned at them. "Bon appétit," he said with a flourish.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Shouldn't we wait for Jon?" Martin asked.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Tim shrugged. "We can. Do you want to wait for Jon?"</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Uh, I mean, it's—polite? To wait? But if you don't want to, I mean—"</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Teasing, teasing." He smiled. "You can loosen up, you know. And stop hanging in the doorway, there are plenty of seats."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Maybe you just didn't do a good enough job of making the kitchen seem welcoming," Sasha said. "Not inviting him in while you were cooking, now that's just bad etiquette. What would your mother say?"</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Most likely something about how I haven't been cooking enough for my friends, if I only just thought to bring groceries to the Archives." He shrugged. "And she'd be right. I mean, other than his birthday cake, I haven't made much for Martin at all."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Oh, that's not—the cake was very nice, but you don't have to—"</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Martin, it isn't about 'having' to do anything." Tim shrugged. "It's about wanting to, you know? But we've been having so much take-out that I just ... I dunno, it just slipped my mind, I guess." He clasped his hands together. "Anyway! The food is done and there are plenty of seats. What do you want to drink? There's water, of course, and I got milk and some juices? Wasn't sure what to get, really, so I just got an assortment. Cranberry? Grape? Apple?"</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Uh, water's fine, but I can get it myself—"</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"And Sasha?"</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Water for me, too." She smiled and nodded towards the table. "C'mon, let's at least sit while we wait for Jon. He should be getting here soon, right?"</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Uh, yeah, that's what he said." Martin let himself be led to the table. He checked his phone. <em>Just got on. See you soon.</em> "Yeah, he got on the train a couple of minutes ago. He should be here within half an hour." He sent back, <em>Dinner's waiting for you when you get here.</em></em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"If he'd left when we said dinner was being made, he would've been here by now."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>
      <em>You don't have to wait up.</em>
    </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Yeah, well ... you know how he is." <em>It's not a big deal.</em> Martin glanced up at Sasha. "Also, you're the same way."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Doesn't mean I can't complain about it when Jon's the one doing it." She smiled. "It's better than complaining that I could've been working this whole time, right?"</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Tim sat in the chair next to her after putting the dishes in the sink and set three cups of water on the table. "You'd have missed being in the kitchen while I cooked, then," he pointed out.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"I do like getting in the way."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Tim shook his head. "Is that all I'm good for? Distracting me while I work my hardest to make good food for dinner?"</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Of course that's not <em>all</em> you're good for," Sasha said. "You're very pretty to look at."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Oh, so I'm just eye-candy now?"</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Isn't that all you want to be?" She smiled.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"I feel like I should talk to HR. Maybe fill out a harassment form."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"That'd be a shame."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>He shook his head again, this time with a laugh. "Just a shame?"</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"I mean, I would get to work with fewer interruptions—"</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Who said I'd be the one leaving? If I make a complaint against you—"</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"I am the Head Archivist. I'm sure I could convince Elias to move you back to research."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"The betrayal."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Sasha shrugged. "That's how the chips fall."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"I'd just have to rely on Martin being the only person with a sane work schedule, then," Tim said. "And he'll convince you to take a reasonable amount of breaks."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Right now that works, sure." She grinned. "But if Jon and I are here, and you don't have a say, then we outnumber him."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"But you wouldn't get any tea if you didn't take breaks."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"But Martin would still want us hydrated, wouldn't you, Martin? So you couldn't deny us tea just because we won't stop working."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“Oh, well …”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“See, you can’t put him on the spot like that.”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Sasha shrugged, grinning. "Never said that I'd play fair."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Martin smiled and listened to the two of them go back and forth, only occasionally giving his own responses.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em><em>Just a few minutes away,</em> Jon texted a little more than twenty minutes later. <em>Walking from the stop now.</em></em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em><em>Okay,</em> Martin replied, <em>be careful.</em> He worried at his lip, just a little, at the message, unsure if it came off as too much or anything, but it was too late now. And there were worms outside the Archives; telling Jon to be careful didn't come without reason. Jon also wouldn't hesitate to say that Martin didn't need to fret over him—he didn't really need to, Jon had two partners perfectly capable of worrying over him without Martin's input—</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>
      <em>I will be.</em>
    </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Martin? Marto? Earth to Martin, can you read me?"</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>He blinked. His face went hot. "Uh, sorry. Did you say something?"</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Tim smiled. "Don't worry about it. Jon say anything about where he is?"</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"He's walking from the stop now."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Okay, good, so we can eat soon." Tim stood. "I forgot the chopsticks." He walked across the break-room and rifled through one of the grocery bags. He pulled out a box. "Here we are!" He handed Sasha and Martin each a pair, and then set another on the table for Jon, before taking one for himself. "Can't eat sushi without chopsticks. I mean, you could, but ..." He trailed off with a shrug.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>The break-room door opened. "You guys really didn't have to wait for me," Jon said, a stack of books and journals in his arms. He set them down beside the door. "I told you when I was getting on the train; you could've started without me."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"It wasn't a problem," Tim said. "I only finished them a bit ago anyway."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Martin said you finished them around the time I was getting on the train."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"And if you had gotten on the train when he first said we were having dinner, you would've been here on time." Tim shrugged. "So it goes. You get distracted with your work. Sasha does too; we drag you away from your work when we need to."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"To a greater or lesser degree of success," Sasha added with a smile.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"You two can be rather, shall we say, hard-headed? Stubborn? Adamant?" Tim snapped his fingers with a grin. "I've got it. Bull-headed."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Yes, yes," Jon rolled his eyes and kissed Tim's cheek. "Thank you for making dinner."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"Would've been more fun if you'd been in the kitchen too."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>"I'm sure Sasha was plenty distracting on her own."</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“Yeah, well.” Tim’s voice dropped, soft. “It’s always nice when you’re here too.”</em>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Infestation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"I was doing some research into epidemiology, just to look at ... well, how diseases get transmitted, really, things about infection rates and—because, I've been thinking, what if we didn't treat Prentiss so much like a host for parasites, and more as a host for bacteria? It seems like she's much more ... contagious than a parasite otherwise would be, at least not directly from human to human, so, if we instead look at it like that, and use the various places we know she's been, then maybe it'll be easier to draw a map of where people might already be infected? And we can use that to narrow down our search, so that ... well, so that I'm not walking up and down streets of bars trying to find anyone who remembers Harriet Lee. Speaking of which, have you reached any of her friends through social media?"</p>
<p>Sasha shook her head. "No. I've tried, but there aren't many ways to say 'hello, I'm from the Magnus Institute, looking into the disappearance and maybe death of your friend, who might have contracted a terrible, ah, disease, from a woman whose body is more or less a home for worms now' without immediately getting blocked. I've sent a few emails, since those are a little less invasive that trying to send anything like direct messages over platforms—I did find some Instagram accounts and things, and most of Ms. Lee's friends seem fine. A couple post infrequently, so I'm not too concerned yet, but ... well, there is one who hasn't posted since around the time that Ms. Lee's went missing, and I don't know if she could've been ... contagious, prior to what happened at Mr. Hodge's residence, so perhaps it might be worth … looking into. I’ll see if I can find her, but we might want to consider there could be someone else with this … condition.”</p>
<p>Jon ran a hand through his hair. “Right, yeah … if you find anything like her place of residence, her school, places she frequented, then we might want to add them to a provisional map or something, just in case.”</p>
<p>Sasha nodded. "Yeah, I've got a good amount of that information here ... Uh, wait a moment." She peered around Jon, at a small, black ... She frowned. "Jon, just a heads up. There's a spider on the wall just a bit behind you, so if you'd want to move out of the way, I'm going to—" She took off her shoe. "Just gonna get rid of it real quick, you know?"<br/>Jon stepped away from the wall, his face twisted in disgust while a lingering, itching feeling laced up the back of his neck, like too many legs stitching silk—Sasha stepped over and the sole of her shoe hit the wall with a <em>thud.</em></p>
<p>"Did you—"</p>
<p>The shelf collapsed with its own clatter and clamor.</p>
<p>Sasha swore under her breath. "Well, that's one for cheap shelves, I suppose." She turned to Jon with a small smile. "But I think I got it." She looked back at the shelf. "I guess this'll have to be replaced ... wait a minute. Jon?"</p>
<p>"Yeah?"</p>
<p>"Do you see this?"</p>
<p>"Uh ... is it a dent? Made by the shelf, maybe?" Jon walked over.</p>
<p>"No, look, it goes all the way through. I thought this was an exterior wall?"</p>
<p>"It should be." He frowned, poking at the edges of the hole.</p>
<p>"I think it's just plasterboard." A low, quiet sound rumbled, almost like static, except almost wet-sounding, too. "Do you see anything?"</p>
<p>"Uh, no, I don't think so—wait, I—" The sound grew, swelled like a tide, and a flash of silver through the hole was the only warning they got, before a sea of them poured from behind the wall. "Sasha, run. Run!" He scrambled to his feet and away, bumping into Sasha. Their hands interlocked and they turned to run out the door—</p>
<p>"Wait!" Sasha double-backed, to her desk, even as worms covered it with their writhing, shining bodies.</p>
<p>"What are you—we need to—"</p>
<p>"Just a moment!" She dug her hand into the morass until it closed around the tape recorder. "I've got it!" She ran back to Jon, swatting worms from her arm, but the worms came faster, coating the floor—picking their way up and along their legs, even as Jon tried to fend them off—the worms kept coming, pouring from the wall— "Come on, we need to—get out, find Martin—"</p>
<p>"Guys, is everything—"</p>
<p>"Martin!"</p>
<p>"Get the extinguishers."</p>
<p>"What—holy <em>shit,</em> what is—"</p>
<p>"No time to explain. Get the extinguishers!"</p>
<p>“Right, right—” Martin dug through a few boxes—knocking off the worms as they covered the cardboard—he started spraying with the first one he grabbed. “There’s—there’s too many of them!” The worms shriveled as the CO2 hit them—but not fast enough, not with how many kept coming, replacing the fallen like hydra heads—</p>
<p>“Just keep spraying!”</p>
<p>“We need to go,” Jon said.</p>
<p>“Where?” Martin bit back. “Where can we go that isn’t—”</p>
<p>“Let me think—”</p>
<p>“The storage room!” Sasha exclaimed. “It’s—we need to—”</p>
<p>“Yes, yes, that—”</p>
<p>“Guys, we need to—”</p>
<p>“Do you see Prentiss?”</p>
<p>“No, no, but—”</p>
<p>“Come on, come on—”</p>
<p>Sasha scrambled with the door and grabbed Martin’s and Jon’s arms before dragging them out of the office. The worms flooded from the room—from the walls—they ate through the wood.</p>
<p>The air smelled of rot, thick and heavy and choking.</p>
<p>“We need to—” She turned them towards the storage room, and—a shelf collapsed into them, worms eating through it—the tape recorder skidded from Sasha’s hand, her stomach twisting— “Fuck, Jon!”</p>
<p>She pulled Martin up, knocking wood and worms away—Jon stood and looked around, frantic, wide-eyed—</p>
<p>“Jon, we need to—”</p>
<p>She spotted the recorder just as Jon did, on the other side of the wreckage, and he was already moving towards it before Sasha could say anything. Worms jumped at him—she was sure she saw some eating through his clothes, to his skin—he grabbed the recorder, and—</p>
<p>Sasha could hear the crack of his ankle on his way back, stepping wrong on the wood, landing hard on the floor—losing the tape recorder to the worms once again. She hurried to his side, half-lifting him—</p>
<p>"Come on, we need to—what were you <em>thinking—”</em></p>
<p>———</p>
<p>The three of them skidded into the storage room. "Uh, here, use—" Martin handed Sasha a corkscrew. "For the—worms." He shut the door behind them and dragged the filing cabinets in front of the door.</p>
<p>Jon sat on the cot with a sharp wince and hiss between his teeth. "The recorder."</p>
<p>"What? Don't worry about that right—</p>
<p>“Oh, uh, I have an extra,” Martin said. “Let me—I’ll get it in just a minute.”</p>
<p>Sasha gave him a small nod before turning back to Jon. “Now, okay, um. Steady, okay, I'm just going to—" She stared at the corkscrew in her hand. "This is going to ... hurt. I'm ... take a deep breath, okay, Jon? One, two—" She plunged the screw into the nearest wriggling hole before Jon could tense further and started pulling it out. He gritted his teeth, trying not to scream—</p>
<p>Once he'd moved the filing cabinets, Martin edged back to the two. His tape recorder sat on the stack of books that passed for his bedside (cot-side?) table. He picked it up, fidgeting with the buttons, and clicked it on. "Uh, there we are?" he said, voice lifting at the end. "We're recording again."</p>
<p>Jon gave a pained cry as Sasha pulled out the worm. She stamped on it until it was nothing but a black mark on the floor. "Thank you, Martin," he said.</p>
<p>"Yeah." Sasha gave him a tired smile. "What do you have this for, anyway? Drinking in the Archives? Tim must be a bad influence."</p>
<p>"What? No—wait, Tim drinks in the Archives?"</p>
<p>She laughed. "No, but he's certainly tried. Kept wanting to bring you wine for a 'house-warming' gift once you moved in."</p>
<p>"Uh ... huh." Martin shook his head. "Uh, no. I got the corkscrew for the worms."</p>
<p>"... What?"</p>
<p>"For pulling out the worms. You know, like ... just now. I mean, I used to carry a knife, but the worms just dig down, so cutting laterally wouldn't actually be all that helpful, so I ... you know. Got that."</p>
<p>"Huh." Sasha examined the corkscrew a moment before handing it back. "Well, it's certainly ... effective."</p>
<p>“Yeah, well …” Martin looked down and shrugged. “You guys got to go home everyday. I just … I’ve sat here and just had to <em>think</em> about … all this. About what might happen if—well. This happened.” He swallowed. Cleared his throat. "… Why did you do that, though? Jon? Trying to go back for the—the tape, why did you—?"</p>
<p>He scowled. Shrugged. "I ... I had to. I mean, Sasha would've if I hadn't, and ..."</p>
<p>"Yeah, but you managed to sprain your ankle too—"</p>
<p>"Well, my apologies that I wasn't paying attention to the loose boards beneath my feet while running from flesh-eating <em>worms—"</em></p>
<p>"That's not what I—" Sasha sighed. "I'm sorry. Thank you, for ... trying to get the recorder, and trying to protect me from getting it, but ..." She sat next to him and pulled him against her chest. "I couldn't ... you ..." She kissed his temple. "Don't do anything like that again."</p>
<p>"If I had known Martin had an extra tape recorder in here, I wouldn't have bothered."</p>
<p>"Why ... did you bother?" Martin asked. "What's so ... special about the tape?"</p>
<p>Both Jon and Sasha fell silent a moment.</p>
<p>"I ... I didn't want to be another mystery. Whatever ... whatever's going on here, we can't—whoever comes after us needs to <em>know</em> about this. And ... well, Sasha grabbed it first, so I ... it was important."</p>
<p>She frowned. "Yeah, but ..."</p>
<p>"Why did you take it?" Martin asked.</p>
<p>She blinked. "I—I ... I don't know. I needed—like Jon says, whoever comes after us needs to know this stuff—but ... Christ, we've spent so long trying to track down Jane Prentiss, recording who came in contact with her and who came in contact with the people who came in contact with her, and we've been trying for <em>so long</em> to piece together anything we could about her, and now she's just <em>here.</em> Like a—a specimen, and I—I couldn't risk it. Not having this recorded, so we can ..." She bit her lip. "We work in the Archives. It's our job to record what happens and keep that record.</p>
<p>“And … every real statement just leads … deeper into something I don’t even know the shape of yet. I … I still don’t know what happened to Gertrude, either. I mean, officially she’s still missing, but Elias is no help and the police were pretty clear that the wait to call her dead is just a formality—” Sasha took a deep breath. “Sorry, I just … Gertrude left behind so many <em>questions.</em> Why keep the Archives disorganized? Why pick me? Why not leave instructions, any instructions, on how to handle—<em>this?”</em> She gestured to the barricaded door. “There’s no way Gertrude worked here as long as she did without running into any of this, and I … I don’t know. I can’t leave someone else to take my place and not know anything either.”</p>
<p>Martin frowned. “Wouldn’t that … put them off? Wanting the job?”</p>
<p>Sasha and Jon shared a grimace. “… only an idiot would stay in this job,” he said.</p>
<p>Martin gave an awkward chuckle. “Wouldn’t that make you an idiot?”</p>
<p>The two looked at him.</p>
<p>“… ah.”</p>
<p>Sasha shook her head. “Anyway … can you see what’s going on back there? I can’t …” Martin crossed the small room to peer through the door’s small window.</p>
<p>“Uh, sort of. When was the last time we cleaned the window?” He frowned. “Looks like the worms are backing off a bit … There’s still some lurking in the corners, but not much else … I can see the tape recorder now.”</p>
<p>“Any sign of Prentiss?”</p>
<p>“No … I, uh, think they’re waiting for something.”</p>
<p>Jon frowned. “For what?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know. Tim, maybe?”</p>
<p>Jon’s and Sasha’s faces went slack, eyes wide. “Oh, fuck, Tim,” she cursed, breathless. “He—he went out to lunch, was going to bring us—fuck, and we can’t even call him, there’s no signal—”</p>
<p>“We just have to hope he heard the noise,” Jon tried to reassure them.</p>
<p>Silence fell among them, only interrupted by the distant writhing of the worms. Martin shuddered, the sound—the smell—reminding him of Prentiss’ song.</p>
<p>“Uh, Sasha?” he asked, if only to break the silence. “What did you mean by ‘real’ statements?”</p>
<p>She and Jon shared a look again, and Martin’s stomach dropped. She looked down and shrugged. “The ones that leave more questions than answers,” she started, “the ones … that have weird wrinkles, or that just seem to have something solid to them.”</p>
<p>“The ones that don’t record digitally,” Jon added. “They …”</p>
<p>“Uh, wait, wait, I see—I see Tim, I see Tim!” Martin cut in. “Oh, Christ, he doesn’t see them. He doesn’t—Tim! Tim!”</p>
<p>“He can’t hear you,” Jon said, resigned. “It’s sound-proofed.” Sasha crossed to the door.</p>
<p>“There—there she is,” she whispered. “It’s Prentiss, she’s—she’s right behind him.” She clenched her fists.</p>
<p>“Screw this.” She shoved the filing cabinet out of the way</p>
<p>"Wait, Sasha, don't—"</p>
<p>She pulled the door open, closed it behind her just as quick. "Tim!" she shouted, running into him, tackling him—</p>
<p>The worms hissed like screaming. They echoed in Sasha's ears, a sharp static that set her teeth on edge.</p>
<p>"Sasha, what—"</p>
<p>Worms cracked like eggshells beneath them. Sludge—like mud, like filth—sank into their clothes. Sasha grabbed Tim's hand and dragged him down the hall.</p>
<p>"Are you hurt?" she asked. "Bitten?" He stared at the writhing hive that used to be Jane Prentiss.</p>
<p>Sasha tugged him forward—he lurched. Stumbled.</p>
<p>"Come on, Tim," she urged—</p>
<p>He saw the shelf, teetering and half-eaten, his legs unsteady beneath him. He let go of her hand.</p>
<p>"Go," he said, desperate. "Get help. Go!" Confusion—conflict—regret, almost, or what would become it, if regret had a future sense—furrowed her brow, and he wished he could smooth it out, could pull her back into his arms—</p>
<p>She nodded.</p>
<p>He watched her run. The shelf collapsed as she disappeared through the door beyond it.</p>
<p>Tim spared a glance over his shoulder—Prentiss stood outside the door to the storage room, a box of files in—what might generously be called her arms. The cardboard decayed beneath her touch; worms writhed through it, chewing holes into the folders, the papers, coating the statements in a oily film that Tim could see from where he stood—</p>
<p>He ran into Sasha’s office.</p>
<p>Worms covered the walls, the floors. Some dropped from the ceiling, others leaped at him through the air—Tim dodged, crashing into boxes—which he would’ve assumed had been filled with statements, only for the solidity of them to jar through his body.</p>
<p>Knocking into them, cardboard lids spilled onto the floor; canisters like fire extinguishers rolled onto the floor. Tim’s hands closed around one before he’d made the conscious decision. He squeezed, and the room filled with gas.</p>
<p>The worms shriveled beneath the tirade. They didn’t quite <em>scream.</em> Instead, a high-pitched whistling came from them, like the boiling of crabs, resonating in Tim’s ears like a siren.</p>
<p>He emptied the canister, but more worms poured into the room. He sprayed and sprayed—until he saw a dark hole, in the wall, loom through the gas. Tim grabbed a few more canisters and ran through, into the tunnels.</p>
<p>The cold hit him first. Even before the darkness, Tim noticed the chill that hung in the air, that stole his breath at first. It was a dry cold, bare and thin, and—other than the rotten smell of the worms—the air felt empty. Hollow.</p>
<p>Worms came few and far between in the tunnels, Tim noted, but they moved faster. Quieter—almost silent, really, without the wriggling, squirming sound they made as they inched their way across the floors in the Archives, the walls, itching to dig and burrow into—</p>
<p>Tim swallowed. Shook his head. He kept moving, even though—he couldn't have gone this way before, but he also ... did he just go left? Or was it right? Was the tunnel sloping, one way or another? A pressure built in his head, like the coming of a migraine, alongside the fuzziness the gas had already brought him.</p>
<p>He staggered through the tunnels, hoping to find a way out, or—something.</p>
<p>He found a room, instead.</p>
<p>Worms writhed around and <em>into</em> and <em>through</em> each other. They built each other up, made arches of their squirming bodies, burrowed into the walls and into each other, and Tim, through his haze, could've sworn that they—with their loping curves, their attempt at structure, the architecture of their bodies becoming one—formed a door.</p>
<p>Or. A doorway. Or, at least, the impression of one, because they couldn't possibly lead anywhere, writhing as they were against stone—</p>
<p>Tim clenched his hands and pumped the room full of gas. Extinguishers hit the ground with clangs as clatters as he emptied one, then a second, and dropped them as they were left useless. He breathed heavily, the air not full enough with oxygen, and his heart raced and his lungs burned and his head <em>ached.</em> He couldn't feel his feet.</p>
<p>Tim turned and ran back through the tunnels.</p>
<p>Worms jumped out at him. He skittered away and sprayed more CO2 and swore whenever more came.</p>
<p>A wall stood out to him as strange. As—a bandaid, or a balm, over a blemish that couldn't quite solve the problem, couldn't quite stop the flow—the metaphor escaped him, but the wall stood before him, nonetheless, of plaster or dry-wall, like it had been placed after-the-fact, like the tunnels themselves rejected it—</p>
<p>Tim might have heard voices through it. It might have just been the screaming—the singing—of the worms, back inside the Archives. He might have been leading himself back to a grisly death, one of worms feasting on his flesh until they reached bone, devouring him before even giving him the courtesy of dying first—</p>
<p>He slammed the butt of a canister into the wall. Pieces of it broke off, and the wall cracked with each blow. He hit it, again and again, and it crumbled, growing thinner and thinner beneath his assaults—he heard Jon. And Martin. Exclaiming or yelling or panicking—and Tim, with a renewed strength in his arms that felt more like panic too, busted through the plaster.</p>
<p>"Hey, guys!" he said, voice chipper, head light.</p>
<p>"Tim?" Jon asked, and Tim could see him almost move forward—saw him wince, actually, when he put weight on his ankle— "Are you ... you're not bitten, are you?" he asked. Tim frowned. Thought about his skin, purposefully, tried to discern any pain—</p>
<p>"No, I'm all good." He grinned. "Want to see?" He dropped the remaining canisters onto the floor with a clatter—Martin winced at the sound—and Tim, with shaking hands that he was pretty sure came from light-headedness, unbuttoned and dropped his trousers. "See! All good, aren't I?"</p>
<p>Jon pressed his lips together, thin. "Quite," he said dryly. "You can put those back on."</p>
<p>Martin's face looked pink. Tim pulled his trousers back up.</p>
<p>"Come on, then," he said. "The tunnels are—safe enough. I think we might ... be able to get out through them, if we can—well, if we can find our way, I guess. Better than staying here, right?"</p>
<p>Martin glanced at Jon. Jon glanced at the door, where Jane knocked—if it could be called knocking, with her hands less like hands and more like masses of worms, wriggling where she might have once had fingers. The worms pressed at the corners of the door, trying desperately to chew their way through.</p>
<p>Jon nodded. "Let's go," he agreed, but hissed when he stood. Tim, moving without thinking, walked over and wrapped an arm around his waist.</p>
<p>"Here, let me help," he said, voice soft now, murmuring in Jon's ear. He smiled, just a little, at the darkening across his cheeks. "We'll get you out of here," he promised. "Everything's going to be all right. Sasha went to get help."</p>
<p>Jon hummed, his jaw clenched, to let Tim know he was listening, even as he had to put weight on his bad ankle.</p>
<p>Tim made a note to ask what happened, but he figured that now wasn't exactly the time.</p>
<p>Martin led the way back into the tunnels. Tim wished, on some level, that someone—anyone—would fill the silence with some kind of babble, even a nervous one, but he couldn't think long enough to grasp at words, and they needed to listen for the worms, if they could hear them at all, just to be safe. To be careful.</p>
<p>———</p>
<p>“Sasha, there’s a fire, we should get out of the building—”</p>
<p>“There’s no fire. I pulled the alarm. To get everyone out of the building, because Jane Prentiss is in the Archives. I don’t—there was a hole in the wall and worms came through it and Jon’s hurt and I—I don’t know how Tim’s doing, or—” She took a slow breath. “The worms are taking over the Archives, and we need to save Jon, Tim, and Martin now.”</p>
<p>“Well.” Elias frowned. “I must admit, I was … beginning to think that you, Jon, and Martin were all blowing this out of proportion, but … if you say so. I had the fire suppression system changed to a CO2 system, per your advisement—”</p>
<p>“Why hasn’t it gone off?”</p>
<p>“Because there isn’t actually a fire.”</p>
<p>Sasha blinked. “… right.”</p>
<p>“But we can manually set it off. From the basement. Come on, we can go together.”</p>
<p>She nodded. “Right, yeah—” She swallowed. “Wait. Will it … will it hurt Jon? Tim? Martin?”</p>
<p>“Well … I’m not a doctor, but I can say that dumping excessive amounts of CO2 on someone isn’t good for their health. But, I imagine, neither are worms. Or Jane Prentiss, as it so happens. It might be their only chance.”</p>
<p>“… Right. All right. Lead the way.”</p>
<p>Elias nodded and coolly collected himself, heading out of his office and toward the basement.</p>
<p>———</p>
<p>They weren't careful enough.</p>
<p>Tim almost couldn't see them, when they came across what might have been the only mass of worms in the tunnels. It was too dark, and Martin was holding the torch, and he heard him yell—or yelp—and he heard footsteps, but—</p>
<p>Jon pressed against his side, unable to rush, and Tim didn't trust himself to try to carry him at the moment, so he did what he thought might be all that he could do, at the moment. He pulled Jon close to his chest and held him there. His free arm moved to try to cover Jon's neck; he felt Jon's arms do the same.</p>
<p>The worms chewed through them and abandoned them just as quickly.</p>
<p>“… He thought we were behind him,” Tim said when he caught his breath.</p>
<p>“He wasn’t thinking.”</p>
<p>“… maybe not. But we’re all scared, and panic—”</p>
<p>“I know.” Jon sighed, pressed to Tim’s chest. “I’m not—I don’t blame him. I just …”</p>
<p>“He’ll be fine.”</p>
<p>“How do you—you don’t know that, you can’t—not for sure, not—”</p>
<p>“He’ll be fine. And so will we, okay? I promise.” Tim kissed Jon’s forehead. “Let’s just … keep moving, okay?”</p>
<p>———</p>
<p>Sasha lost sight of Elias. He veered off, and the—<em>tide</em> of worms rushed towards them, and all Sasha could think about was Jon and Tim, somewhere in the Archives, maybe trapped, maybe being eaten, and she turned away, too, in a different direction—the worms could split up to follow both her and Elias, sure, but then, at least, they'd be running from less of them—</p>
<p>But she couldn't much pretend that she was running towards the Archives (towards Jane Prentiss) because she wanted to give Elias a better chance at turning on the fire suppression system. She hoped he could handle himself, in the face of ... this, whatever she could call <em>this,</em> but she also couldn't worry about him.</p>
<p>She had people in the Archives she needed to—protect wasn't the right word, because she hadn't been able to <em>stop</em> this, regardless of the research she had done, regardless of the extra hours and the time she had spent combing through all of Jon's interviews with anyone who might have at one point known Harriet Lee or Timothy Hodge—she hadn't even considered that Jane might come to the Archives, that she might have already been there.</p>
<p>And now, Jon and Tim and Martin were stuck in the Archives, and she had left them there. She gritted her teeth and clenched her fists and focused on running away from the oncoming swarm of worms behind her.</p>
<p>———</p>
<p>“What was—” Jon’s brow furrowed. He stared into the darkness, straining to see—a glint of silver, almost like light, almost like a reflection, if only as thin as a thread— “Do you see that?”</p>
<p>Tim turned to look over his shoulder. Squinted. “See what?”</p>
<p>“I thought …”</p>
<p>Something darker than the shadows of the tunnels moved. Huge—bulbous—with spindly appendages outstretched—threads, strings, <em>web</em> spinning from its corner—</p>
<p>“We need to move <em>now,”</em> Jon hissed, fingers throbbing with how tightly he gripped Tim’s shirt. “We need to get out of here, come on—”</p>
<p>——— </p>
<p>She didn't reach the Archives.</p>
<p>Standing at the end of the hall that led to the Archives, she spotted Jane Prentiss, hunched over what Sasha had never noticed before, but, with Jane's worms eating away at the corners and a thick ooze shining its surface, now she could see it was a door. Small, and hidden, but a door nonetheless, and Sasha could only think of the hole in her office, gaping and dark and leading into unknown depths, how the worms had poured from it—</p>
<p>What if Jane was trying to bring in more worms? What if Jon and Martin (and maybe Tim, she hadn't seen where he had ran) were still in the storage room, and Jane would be able to get to them if she simply had more worms to help her? What if they chewed through the door, or the floor, or the walls—</p>
<p>And Sasha was already barreling forward, before she thought of what she would—or <em>could</em>—do, before she had thought of the pain she'd bring onto herself doing this. She slammed into what used to be Jane Prentiss and her skin crawled. Jane felt inhuman beneath her, like she had an exoskeleton made of the worms that lived in her skin, and no longer had any bones within her. Some worms popped beneath Sasha's weight.</p>
<p>But others burrowed into her. Chewed through her skin. Jane writhed beneath her, and Sasha tried to move away, at least so that she wouldn't be shielding Jane when (if) Elias set off the suppression system. She grabbed onto Jane, her hands pressing into her, the worms moving around her, slipping between her fingers and eating into her hands, and dragged her away from the trapdoor.</p>
<p>———</p>
<p>"... are you sure about this?"</p>
<p>Jon frowned. "Well, it's either we stay in the tunnels and hope we find a way out before any more worms find us, or ..."</p>
<p>"Or we open this door and maybe Prentiss is waiting right outside it for us."</p>
<p>"Maybe. Or maybe it's our only way out. We—" He clicked on the recorder. "We have to try, at least. Sasha—Sasha went to get help. We don't know where Martin is—"</p>
<p>"Hopefully somewhere far away from this door," Tim muttered.</p>
<p>"—but Tim found what looks like a trapdoor. We're recording this in case ... well, in case it leads back to the still worm-ridden Archives." He swallowed. "Sasha, if you hear this ... we love you."</p>
<p>"And we know you tried your best, so don't ..."</p>
<p>Silence lapsed between them, echoing off the stone walls.</p>
<p>"Yeah. All right." Tim pressed a kiss to Jon's forehead. "You ready?"</p>
<p>"As I'll ever be."</p>
<p>Tim nodded. "Okay." He shouldered the trapdoor open.</p>
<p>———</p>
<p>She heard the trap door open, with a creak, with a curse—</p>
<p>The worms ate into her and she screamed.</p>
<p>———</p>
<p>The fire alarm blared through the halls, the only sound louder than the crawling, itching, writhing of the worms—Prentiss lay on the floor, Sasha grappling at her wasp-nest skin—</p>
<p>"Sasha!" he shouted.</p>
<p>The worms took notice of them then, of course, spilling through the trapdoor as Tim tried to support Jon's weight, tried to shield him from the oncoming tide—their mouths burrowed through their flesh, burning, and Tim pressed Jon's face to his neck, hid his own against Jon's shoulder. </p>
<p>———</p>
<p>Gas filled the air. It lay heavy on her and her head felt light and worms burrowed into her and—</p>
<p>Jane Prentiss let out a scream of her own, like a thousand different voices.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>Martin gripped his torch, knuckles white. “Jon?” he called out. “Tim?” Silence whispered in his ears like static, the high-pitch whine of straining to hear— “Jon? Tim?!” he tried again, but the cold stone swallowed his words.<p>His voice didn’t echo down the tunnels.</p>
<p>“Okay. Okay. That’s … they’re probably fine, I’m probably fine, I just … have to figure a way out of here. That’s all. Nothing to it.” Martin inspected the tunnels branching out around him. “I just have to … retrace my steps, is all.</p>
<p>"Right. Easy as that." Martin gave a laugh—more of an exhalation of nervous air than anything else, and shuddered against the thick, underground chill of the air, like he'd stepped out of a basement and into a cave, even as the tunnels stood of carved stone brick around him.</p>
<p>He kept his phone's light on, just in case. And began trying to piece together his way back.</p>
<p>He couldn't remember the ways he'd ran. Too busy trying to escape worms, too busy hoping Tim and Jon were still okay, too busy with guilt gnawing through him at leaving them alone. He swallowed. Fidgeted his hands, clenching and unclenching his fists, trying to keep his eyes peeled for any sliver of silver that he might see.</p>
<p>He turned and turned and hoped each time that the tunnels might open out into something familiar, that he might see the hole back to the office, or some other way out, but the darkness pressed in on him, like his torch could barely see into it, couldn't illuminate any more than the barest hints of his surroundings—</p>
<p>He turned. And found a room. Quiet and covered in cobwebs and stacks of tapes—and a desk, at its center. With a woman sitting at it, her head on the wood, and her chest—</p>
<p>"Oh, G-d."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Remains</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Statement of, uh—"</p>
<p>"Sasha. You should go home. Get some rest. As your boss—"</p>
<p>"I'm fine."</p>
<p>"You're covered practically head to toe in gauze. You should—"</p>
<p>"I've been given a clean bill of health, Elias. If I had shown any sign of infection, I wouldn't have been. You saw how closely they were looking. I'm fine."</p>
<p>"You need fresh air. Jon and Tim, too."</p>
<p>"It's fresh enough down here."</p>
<p>"A basement filled with a thousand rotting worm carcasses? Surely we could do this in my office."</p>
<p>"No, I—I need to stay down here, I need to—to keep watch—"</p>
<p>"Sasha, Jane Prentiss is dead. I went with the ECDC. I saw her burn. You can relax."</p>
<p>"No, not—not yet, not with—what Martin found, and with ... Jon and Tim are still in quarantine. I won't be leaving until they've been cleared anyway, so we might as well get this done now."</p>
<p>Elias sighed. "Very well."</p>
<p>"Thank you." Sasha nodded. "Statement of Elias Bouchard, Head of the Magnus Institute, regarding the ... infestation by the entity formerly known as Jane Prentiss. Statement recorded direct from subject, 29th July, 2016. Whenever you’re ready."</p>
<p>"I'll skip the boring pieces at the beginning. When the infestation in the Archives began, I was ... well, working on budgeting, as I do every Tuesday. I wasn't made aware of the circumstances until the fire alarm was pulled. I was going to evacuate, just as everyone else was, when you ran into my office and explained the situation. I trust that this isn't necessary to recap?"</p>
<p>"No, I—my statement covers this portion."</p>
<p>"Good. So then when we encountered that ... tide of worms ... we separated. My apologies, I do believe I'm mainly responsible for our splitting off ... in the face of ... that ... I couldn't quite keep my nerve, and didn't look behind me to see where you were ... I didn't stop running until I had stopped hearing the chittering in my ears.</p>
<p>"I made my way to the boiler room ... slower than I would have liked, but I was trying to take a rather roundabout way there, to avoid coming in contact with any worms. If I had just been faster, or if I had figured out the system easier once I got there ... I'm sorry, Sasha, I—"</p>
<p>"It's fine. I'm fine. Everything—everyone is fine. Just ... keep going, please."</p>
<p>Elias nodded. "There isn't much to say after that. I mean, once I set off the CO2, there was that scream ... that awful, bone-deep, scream—but you were closer than I was. But I ... I don't think I'll ever forget it.</p>
<p>"I then contacted the fire department shortly after, to explain the situation and why the alarm had been triggered, and the emergency services dispatched a team from the ECDC to help with ... clean-up. Once I was through with that, I returned to the Archives to find you, Jon, and Tim ... you all were in ... a bad way. I—I doubt you need me to go into detail, but ... It looked like a few dozen worms had been going into each of you when the carbon dioxide killed them. If I had just—"</p>
<p>"Elias."</p>
<p>"Apologies. I don't mean to be getting off track."</p>
<p>"Just ... pick up with Martin coming back."</p>
<p>"Of course. It was about an hour after they’d taken you three away. They were prepping Prentiss’ corpse for disposal, when Martin burst out of that trapdoor you found, screaming that he’d found a body. So we called the police."</p>
<p>"What happened to Gertrude Robinson?"</p>
<p>"Sasha, how many times do we have to do through this—"</p>
<p>"We never got it on tape."</p>
<p>Elias sighed. "All right, all right ... On the 15th of March last year, I had a query about a statement one of our researchers was after and went down to the Archives. Gertrude wasn’t there, but her desk was covered in blood. I called the police, and there was a huge search, but no sign was found of Gertrude, alive or dead. She didn’t have any assistants, so there were no witnesses, and no-one saw or heard anything.</p>
<p>"The police tested the blood and confirmed the DNA matched to Gertrude, though I don’t know why they had her on file. They judged there to be almost a gallon of blood spilled, far more than the human body can lose and survive, so I assumed she was dead and left the investigation to the police, for all that good it did me. And I appointed another archivist.</p>
<p>"Martin finding her body in the tunnels is as much a mystery to me as it is to you."</p>
<p>"Thank you. Statement ends. Could you send in Martin? And, ah ... let me know when Tim and Jon are let out from quarantine."</p>
<p>"Of course."</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>"Do we—do we have to do this now?"<p>Sasha sighed. "Not if you don't feel up to it. I just ... I'd like to get it all on tape as soon as possible, just—just for timeliness. If that's not possible, then we'll record your statement later. I just—I don't need much. The tapes all survived just fine, I just—I need to know what you saw. After you ran off from Jon and Tim. They gave an account of everything else—"</p>
<p>"I'm sorry."</p>
<p>"If you can't right now, that's fine—"</p>
<p>"No, no, I'm—I'm sorry I left them. I tried—I tried to tell them, but Tim just brushed it off and Jon—Jon did too, kind of, in his own way, but I—I didn't mean to, I thought—I thought they were behind me. I didn't—I didn't mean to."</p>
<p>"They know that, Martin. They didn't—that's why they 'brushed it off,' as you said. They don't think you have anything you need to apologize for."</p>
<p>"But if I hadn't run off, if I hadn't left them—"</p>
<p>"Then it's very likely you would've gotten stuck beneath the trapdoor with the same worms as they did. It's not your fault, what happened, okay? It was Jane Prentiss who attacked the Institute, and we had to try to deal with that as best as we could. You thought they were behind you, while trying to run from the worms in the tunnels. They made it out. They're okay. It's not your fault."</p>
<p>Martin stared at his hands, picking at the skin around his nails. "I'm sorry."</p>
<p>"You didn't do anything wrong."</p>
<p>"... I don't know how I found her."</p>
<p>"Okay."</p>
<p>"I was—I was trying to get back, to find Jon and Tim, or to get back to the Archives, but the tunnels—they're so twisted, and confusing, and I couldn't tell where I had already been, and all i had was my the light from my phone, so I—I couldn't see much."</p>
<p>"Do you think you could find the room again?"</p>
<p>"I don't know. The police expect me to, I think, but ... they don't seem that willing to explore the tunnels either, so ... I don't know. Maybe. But ... the tunnels felt like—like they didn't want me there, almost. Like—I don't know. They weren't changing, or anything, they—they couldn't do that, right?"</p>
<p>Sasha hummed, and Martin hoped it was in agreement.</p>
<p>"But anyway ... I just got so turned around. I don't know how Tim managed to find his way back as fast as he did, because I ... well. You probably know better than I do how long it was after the—the scream that I found my way out at all." He swallowed. "But I found her. In a room that—it was like a study, or an office, almost, with her at a desk in the center, like—well, almost like she was working, or something. There were tapes everywhere. In stacks, in boxes—I don't know how many there were. A lot. And there were ... cobwebs? Not a lot, not too many, I guess, but they were there. I don't know. In case you think it's important, I guess—"</p>
<p>"Tell me what she looked like, Martin."</p>
<p>"I—I didn't get that good of a look. She looked—she looked like she had been there awhile. She—I don't know, I don't know how long, but she looked—left there. Abandoned. Like whoever—whatever—had killed her had just ... left her there to rot, you know?"</p>
<p>"How did she die, Martin?"</p>
<p>"I—I don't know. There was so much—decay, I guess, and she had fallen onto her face, or chest, on the desk, and it was so dark—and I hadn't wanted to get too close, I didn't—I didn't want to see, not—not really—"</p>
<p>"Martin," she interrupted. <em>"How did she die?"</em></p>
<p>"She was shot! Three—three times, from what I could see. Oh, G-d, somebody—somebody shot her down there, and—and—"</p>
<p>"Breathe, Martin. Breathe. You're safe. You're in my office, in the Archives. You're safe."</p>
<p>Martin nodded, shakily.</p>
<p>"I'm—I'm sorry," she said. "Thank you. For telling me. Now ... go get some rest, okay? I—I have to talk with Jon and Tim about it, but I—I think we can set the living room up for you. You can stay with us, for a bit, at least until you get a place for yourself—"</p>
<p>"No, I couldn't—that's—"</p>
<p>"It's not a bother, and it's not too much. You shouldn't have to go back to your apartment, not after—not after what happened there. And I can't imagine you'd want to stay in the storage room any longer than absolutely necessary, so ... but if you're really against it, I'll talk to Elias about using some of the Archives' budget to set you up in a hotel, okay? At least for now. So you can get some rest, away from the Archives, all right? Two weeks, at least. Take longer if you need to."</p>
<p>"But—"</p>
<p>"Martin, really. I mean it. After all that's happened, I think everyone deserves at least that much time off. Especially you, since you hadn't gotten to leave—" She shook her head. "Just ... take the time, okay? Recuperate. Rest. Look into some places you think you might want to move. All right?"</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________________________________</p>
</div>"Are you two all right?" Sasha asked, already standing, walking towards them with stiff, halting steps. Jon, leaning into Tim and holding a crutch, grimaced.<p>"As 'all right' as we can be, most likely," he said.</p>
<p>Sasha frowned. "You two were in quarantine longer than I was—"</p>
<p>"I made a joke about itching," Tim said with a half-shrug, almost sheepish. "Trying to lighten the mood, you know? But then they were taking all these tests, and ... well. I was glad for the company, at least." He gave a tight smile. Leaned his head against Jon's. "Can we ... go home now? I—" He sighed. "Elias said you were taking everyone's statements first."</p>
<p>"Yes, I ... while it's still ... fresh in everyone's minds, I just. I just want to get it down on record."</p>
<p>Tim frowned. "Is that the best idea right now, Sash?" he asked, gentle. "I mean ... you should get some rest. We all should, really, and not come back to work for a while—or even think about it, really. I, for one, don't want to think about worms any more than absolutely necessary. Which is not at all."</p>
<p>Sasha sighed. Closed her eyes. Her exhaustion showed in the slump of her shoulders, the shadows beneath her eyes, the furrow between her eyebrows that wouldn't go away. "Maybe Tim's right," Jon said, slowly, reluctantly. Sasha could see how much he wanted answers, itched to solve the mystery set out in front of them. "Maybe we should take a break from all this. Just—for right now, just until you're healed up."</p>
<p>"We'll go home soon," she promised. "I just ... I just want to get these recordings done. Just to have everything down now, so that it's all here, when we get back." She took her glasses off and rubbed at her eyes. "I don't ... I won't be able to sleep or even rest until this is all done anyway, so can we just ...? Please. Get it all done right now."</p>
<p>"... all right," Tim agreed. "Can we all stay in the room, or ..."</p>
<p>"... statements should probably be given individually," Sasha said, voice heavy. Tired. "Just ... memory is unreliable as-is, especially in the face of trauma—especially supernatural trauma—and adding in what other people think is how things happened ..." She sighed. "I'm sorry. I don't—I don't want to—you two just got back from quarantine, I don't want—"<br/>Tim gave Sasha a small smile. Put his hand over hers. "It's all right, Sash. I'll just go check up on Martin, all right? It'll be fine. I'll make sure he's doing all right, too."</p>
<p>"As 'all right' as the situation allows, at least," Jon mumbled. Tim shrugged.</p>
<p>"Yeah, that's about right," he agreed. Kissed Jon's temple. "I'll come back with tea when you two are done."</p>
<p>"Thanks, Tim," Sasha said.</p>
<p>"Anytime, love."</p>
<p>He closed the door with a soft click behind him. The whirring of the tape recorder crackled into the silence between them.</p>
<p>"... where do you want to start?" Jon asked. Sasha sighed.</p>
<p>"Statement of Jonathan Sims, archival assistant at the Magnus Institute, regarding the invasion by the entity formerly known as Jane Prentiss. Statement recorded direct from subject, 29th July, 2016. Statement begins," she introduced, staring at her desk. She glanced up to Jon and tried to give him a reassuring smile. "In your own time."</p>
<p>He took a slow breath. "All right. We were together for the first part of the ... invasion, so you saw that. For the sake of the record: we were discussing alternate methods of tracking down Prentiss and her ... infection in your office, when you saw a spider and tried to kill it. This jarred the shelf poorly attached to the wall, and its collapse busted the drywall. We had thought that was an exterior wall, but it instead led to the tunnels of which we had previously been unaware, and the worms began to pour through it.</p>
<p>"We ... didn't respond as quickly as we should have. We were trapped, nearly, trying to navigate our way away from the worms and gather as many CO2 canisters as we could while also not getting bitten, and ... then Martin arrived, and he helped with the canisters, and then—instead of running immediately out once there was a semblance of a way through, you risked yourself for the tape recorder.</p>
<p>"We ran to the storage room for cover, for a place to ... hide and regroup. On the way, there was ... one of the shelves was eaten through and collapsed on us. They're not the sturdiest of things, so it wasn't difficult to extricate ourselves, but ... you had dropped the tape recorder. I went back for it." Jon grimaced. "Unfortunately, my joints don't always agree with the movements I make, and I rolled my ankle while stepping over the broken boards. I lost the tape recorder, and was bitten by some worms for my trouble.</p>
<p>"Thankfully, Martin had an extra in the storage room, so we resumed recording once we got there. Both recorders survived, didn't they?"</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>He nodded. "Good. You removed the worms from me with a corkscrew, an ... inventive solution Martin came up with, and then we ... waited. Martin couldn't see much, and I was on the cot, but ... well, then Tim returned to the Archives, and we couldn't warn him from the storage room, so you ran out. Martin said you tackled Tim, and then that you ran out of the Archives while he ran into your office ..." He took in a breath. "We didn't know if either of you were going to make it. We didn't—the worms had started coming in from your office, so we didn't know if Tim—and you ... well, we didn't know the state of the rest of the Institute. Then the fire alarm went off.</p>
<p>"Martin and I didn't have much choice outside of staying inside the storage room. Then there was ... well, we didn't know it at the time, but Tim was knocking through the wall with an empty CO2 canister. He came through and led us into the tunnels.</p>
<p>"The tunnels were ... dark. And sound didn't echo down them, and corners seemed to swallow all light from our torches—granted, we only had our cellphones, but still." He shook his head. "The tunnels made my head ... ache. Like going on an airplane. The pressure was all wrong, somehow, but I can't put my finger on how ... anyway. Tim was right. There weren't as many worms in tunnels, but they were faster. Tim was helping me walk, so when worms attacked us ... Martin separated from us, running away up ahead. We couldn't find him.</p>
<p>"The tunnels, though ... they're a maze, down there. We couldn't tell which ways we might have already come, but we knew we needed to get back to the Archives ... Tim found what looked like a trapdoor. We ... well, we opened it. And we saw you, briefly, before ... it was just ... worms. They fell or dropped or jumped onto us, and we could hear you and Prentiss, and ... then the CO2 system deployed. The ECDC showed up. We all were examined for infection, and I stayed with Tim through his examination, and ... that's it." He gave a rough, dry chuckle. "All that, and it's summed up in only a handful of minutes in a recording."</p>
<p>"Yes, well ..." Sasha sighed. "Is there ... anything else?"</p>
<p>He frowned. "I don't ... maybe. I ... I think I saw something. In the tunnels. Sasha, I think—I think something's down there. I didn't see much of it, it was gone too fast and—well, I'm sure you know that we had more ... pressing matters to deal with at the time, but ..." He set his jaw. "I think that we should investigate. Once the ECDC is finished their investigation, once the worms are ... extracted."</p>
<p>"Jon ..."</p>
<p>"I know, okay, I know how it sounds, but ... what if something like this happens again? What if there's another thing hiding for us beneath the Institute? What if this is our chance to—to get ready? To be prepared? I don't ... I don't know. I mean, Gertrude's body ... she was found down there. But—"</p>
<p>"Martin says it looked like she was shot."</p>
<p>Jon grimaced. "Exactly. That's not ... that's not worms. That's ... some<em>one</em> killed Gertrude. Someone with a gun. And I ... I don't know what to do with that kind of information, Sasha. Who are we supposed to trust? I know—I think it'd be best if we ... didn't tell Tim and Martin about exploring the tunnels."</p>
<p>"They'd try to stop us."</p>
<p>"They might insist on coming. They might get hurt."</p>
<p>Sasha frowned. "You know I'm not letting you go down there alone."</p>
<p>"... I think it'd be safer, I wouldn't be noticed as easily if I'm by myself, I think—"</p>
<p>"No, Jon. It's not—that's not safer. I'm coming with you. If there's something down there, we'll figure it out. Together."</p>
<p>"... but we won't tell Tim? Or Martin?"</p>
<p>"... they both have enough to worry about." She gave Jon a wry smile. "They spend enough time worrying about us concerning other things. No reason to add to the list, right?"</p>
<p>"Right." His returning smile was smaller, but his eyes were bright. "So I think we should go down as soon as possible—"</p>
<p>"Which means after your ankle is all healed up."</p>
<p>He bit his lip. "... okay, fine, yes. I wouldn't want to ... slow us down, or anything."</p>
<p>Sasha shook her head. "Because of course that's your primary concern," she muttered. She sighed. "Can you ... tell me anything else about this thing? That you saw in the tunnels?"</p>
<p>Jon shifted in his seat. "I ... I don't know. It was huge, or at least it looked like it was, but it was dark, and I ... I couldn't tell how much of what I was seeing was <em>it</em> and how much was its shadow. It's like there was no difference, like one was stitched to the other, not only just by being the object and its image, but like ... the shadow was simply an augmentation of it. Or something." He frowned. "But I ... I could see pieces of silver, thin, like—like thread, not—not like the worms. It was a different kind of silver, pale and reflective, but ... made me think that it wasn't really there, more like it was just ... I don't know, a mirage, or something." He sighed. "I don't know if this is making any sense. I just. I know we need to go down there. We need to be prepared, next time, in case something like this happens again, so that—" He gritted his teeth. "We can't let something like this happen again."</p>
<p>Sasha nodded. "Of course. We're going to do everything we can to keep Tim and Martin safe. If you think we can do that by chasing down whatever might be in the tunnels ... I'm on board."</p>
<p>"And we can't let them know about it."</p>
<p>"We can't put them further into harm's way," she agreed. "I know."</p>
<p>"... I don't like the idea of keeping secrets from Tim. Not ... not about things like this. We'll ... I don't even know when we could go exploring, not without letting him know that something's wrong ..."</p>
<p>"We've got a couple weeks. We'll figure something out." She gave him a small smile. "It won't be the first time we stay late at the Archives."</p>
<p>"No ... but it's always difficult to convince him to leave us to stay late at the Archives."</p>
<p>"... maybe it would be easier to go in one at a time. I could start exploring while you're recovering. You could distract him."</p>
<p>"I'm not letting you go down there alone."</p>
<p>Sasha sighed. “Yes, well, it might be our only shot at seeing what’s down there. And I don’t want to risk you any more than absolutely necessary, you know. So maybe it would be—”</p>
<p>“You are <em>not</em> going down there alone, Sasha. If you want to keep me safe, then you have to know how I want to keep you safe, too.”</p>
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</div>"Sasha, are you sure about this?"<p>She sighed. "I just ... I need to get these done, Tim. Just ... it'll just take a couple of minutes, I promise, okay? Nothing too much, just ... a supplemental to everything that was already recorded during the incident."</p>
<p>"... all right. I just ... I want us to get home soon."</p>
<p>She nodded with a tired smile. "Yeah, I know. This won't take long." She watched him, for a moment. Bandages covered much of his skin. Where his skin wasn't covered, she could see bruising and scrapes too shallow to wrap. He sat with his shoulders slumped, not from being relaxed but from being exhausted. "... are you all right?"</p>
<p>"Yeah, yeah, just ... quarantine. You make one joke about itching—"</p>
<p>"Which is a symptom of—"</p>
<p>"I know. I know. Just ... trying to lighten the mood." He sighed. "I’m fine, though. Except for the holes. And the pain. And the blood and the nightmares. Could’ve been worse though, eh? Another couple of minutes and—"</p>
<p>"Yes." She closed her eyes against imagining exactly what the worms might have left behind, if they hadn't been stopped, if the CO2 system hadn't deployed, if Elias hadn't been fast enough— "It was ..." She swallowed. Shook her head. "Anyway, statement of Timothy Stoker, archival assistant at the Magnus Institute, regarding the infestation by the entity formerly known as Jane Prentiss. Statement recorded direct from subject, 29th July 2016. Just take it from when you got back from lunch."</p>
<p>"Yeah. I came back from lunch and the Archives were just ... quiet. I knew you and Jon were still there, you hadn't said anything about running off to track down any new information or leads, and I had brought back lunch." He gave Sasha a wry smile. "I guess that's probably useless now, huh? I'll, uh ... can we just order in tonight? Not exactly feeling up to making anything for dinner."</p>
<p>"Yeah." She smiled, just slightly. Just enough. "Yeah, that sounds good."</p>
<p>"Cool." He took a deep breath. "Anyway. So I got back to the Archives, and it was ... obvious something was wrong. Everything was too quiet, and then I found that tape recorder on the floor ... and then you came barreling down the hallway, yelling. It's all kind of a blur, really, because ... well, I turned around, and I saw Prentiss, and she ... she was all full of holes, but the holes—they weren't empty, you know, they were like ... nesting spots, and I—I don't know. There were worms everywhere, and they were making some <em>noise,</em> and they—they were coming up through the floor, through the walls, and I ...</p>
<p>"I don't know what I was going to do. Hit Prentiss, maybe? But then you tackled me to the ground, and it was ... probably for the best. I mean, we crushed a lot of worms, and then you were up and pulling me along, and—</p>
<p>"Then I noticed the shelf. I mean, there was already the one behind us chewed through, so it wasn't hard to think this one would come down too, and I wasn't moving fast enough—you needed to get out to get help. So I ... let go of your hand. I—" He swallowed. Shook his head. "I made sure you made it out, before running into your office. I—I just wanted to get a door between me and Prentiss, I didn't know—</p>
<p>"I hadn't known that was where you made the first hole.</p>
<p>"There were loads of them. Some jumped at me as I ran inside so I dodged out the way, but ended up sprawling into this pile of boxes that I thought were case files. Instead, I found myself lying on top of a whole bunch of CO2 canisters, which are damn hard by the way. The worms were still coming, so I used them. I mean, I went full Gas-Rambo.</p>
<p>"After that ... my memory goes a bit fuzzy. 'Respiratory acidosis' a paramedic called it ... I don't know. I went into the tunnels—I mean, there was no point in staying in the office, so I ... they were cold. Dry. Filled with that rotten worm smell.</p>
<p>"There weren’t so many down there. I think they were almost all in the Archives. I have a theory, actually. I think they weren’t ready to attack when you found the tunnels. It’s like, something in the Institute slows them down, and makes them, um, heh, sluggish.</p>
<p>"And that noise they make? That squirming sound? They don’t make it when they’re in the tunnels. I don’t know why. It was only when they came into the Institute. Maybe the light, or the aircon, or something? I’m not sure, but I think it made them weaker, and they’ve been down there for months, breeding, building up their numbers until there were enough to properly bury us. Except you found that hidden passage, and they had to act."</p>
<p>"Could you describe the tunnels?"</p>
<p>Tim frowned. "I can try. They were ... difficult to navigate. I remember they sloped down and up and around. I couldn’t keep track of where I was. I did see some more worms, though. They were fast. I only saw a couple, but it was still proper jump-scare territory. I got them, though. It was really surreal. I only had my phone’s torch, and it was hard to keep an eye out, I was so light headed.</p>
<p>"But describing the tunnels themselves ... sometimes it felt like there were so many ways to go forward that there was no way the place had been built, had been designed. How were people supposed to find their way around? How was anyone supposed to know where anything was? It felt huge, sprawling, like I could pick a direction, any direction, and walk and walk and never find an end. That it would just ... keep going.</p>
<p>"And sometimes it was like ... there was only one way forward. But there always was a way forward, you know? Like that feeling in caves, that just keep going, always beckoning you around the next corner, through the next shoot, into the next chamber.</p>
<p>"Time ... stopped mattering there. I didn't know where I was or how long I had been down there, and ... well. When I found a wall that seemed different, I didn't know if I'd find anything like that again, so I ... It looked like someone had just put some plasterboard over an entrance, and I could hear Jon and Martin on the other side. I broke through and led them into the tunnels.</p>
<p>"We wandered for a while. Jon had messed up his ankle, so I was helping him when we came across a horde of worms. They leaped out at us, too quick for us to—well.</p>
<p>"Martin ran off. I guess he thought we were behind him, but ... me and Jon got chewed up a bit, but I think the worms were more focused on getting into the Archives, and we just happened to be in the way." He gave a rueful smile. "A little snack for the road.</p>
<p>"But they left us alone, after a bit, after ... well, let's say it hurt. A lot. Jon and I started walking again. He ... thought he saw something, in the tunnels, so we moved faster, and that's when I saw the trapdoor." He ran a hand through his hair. "We didn't know what it would open up to, or where, but ... I mean, not like we had much of a choice, really. It was either open the trapdoor and hope, or go back into the tunnels and wander until we found another exit that we wouldn't know if we could trust, so ... we opened it.</p>
<p>"Christ, it was ... awful. We saw you, and then Jane, and then there were so many worms we couldn't see anything. I tried to shield Jon's face and he helped to shield mine, and we ... well, I'm thankful that Elias figured out the CO2 system when he did, that’s for sure.</p>
<p>"There's ... not much to say about afterward. Jon and I were taken to quarantine by the paramedics. No one would tell us what happened to you. I made a dumb joke about itching, and me and Jon were stuck in quarantine even longer ... is that enough? I just—I want to go home now."</p>
<p>"Yeah." Sasha smiled, small and sad and almost pained. "That's all. I'm going to take some final notes, maybe record a couple next steps to research, but ... we're done. If you want to go get Jon and wait for me to finish here—or go on home first, I'll catch up—"</p>
<p>"We'll wait."</p>
<p>"All right." She leaned over to kiss his cheek. "We'll head home in just a bit then, yeah?"</p>
<p>"Yeah." Tim closed his eyes and leaned his head against Sasha's shoulder. "I love you."</p>
<p>"I love you too."</p>
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</div>Sasha turned the tape recorder on with a click.<p>"That's everyone's statements," she said. "Those, plus the recordings from during the incident itself, have all been filed away. Now all that's left is ... well. Trying to piece together not only what happened, but why. And what was the purpose of it all? I don't ..." She sighed. "There are so many moving pieces that I don't even know where to begin.</p>
<p>"Okay. Jane Prentiss attacked the Institute after a plaster wall—which I believed to be an exterior wall—collapsed after I—uh, an incident. Her worms came through en-masse and injured me and my coworkers. In addition to the physical harm she caused to us, she also destroyed—or, well, damaged and contaminated to the point of necessitating destruction—several files. Of the few which had already been sorted, there seemed little reasoning behind why those files and not others.</p>
<p>"She also ... there was also the matter of the potential doorway, which Tim saw and promptly destroyed. The police who went into the tunnels to retrieve Gertrude Robinson's body made no mention of any sort of doorway in the walls. Hopefully, this means it was taken care of, either by Tim or the extermination team who moved through the tunnels after the attack. I don't know what this doorway of worms was meant to accomplish.</p>
<p>"... then there is the matter of my predecessor's corpse. I don't believe it was related to the Prentiss incident, other than our being in the tunnels led to its discovery and then recovery, but ... is it strange, that worms hadn't touched the room? Perhaps they are only interested in living flesh ... if Prentiss can be considered living flesh anymore ... or perhaps the room was simply too far from where the worms were for it to hold any interest to them. I don't know.</p>
<p>"Martin says that Gertrude had been shot. This is ... concerning news. It means that not only is there the threat of paranormal goings-on looming over the Institute—or perhaps only the Archives—but also that of significantly more mundane origins. Flesh-eating worms wouldn't fire a gun. I don't believe that Prentiss could've held one if she tried—if she were even capable, at the end, of having enough will to desire to try.</p>
<p>"Someone brought a weapon into the Archives and shot Gertrude Robinson. I don't know who this person was, but considering that, prior to her body being found, the police had no suspects, I believe it must have been someone who hadn't stood out for any reason coming to the Institute, or to the Archives. I ... don't know who I can talk to, to confirm this, and the surveillance footage outside the Archives is too corrupt to see anything of note.</p>
<p>"But someone murdered Gertrude Robinson. And ... I worry that if the person who did discovers that I'm looking into them and their actions, they might take further action against either myself or those in the Archives with me." She sighed. "I'll have to be careful."</p>
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